My heart is like a singing bird
whose nest has caught on fire.
A fire started by a lit cigarette,
an oyster bisque. Ponies have nothing
to do with peonies, he opines.
His finger slicked with saliva,
circling the rim of a wineglass.
I ask him to open his shirt.
How our lives evolve and revolve.
If eros is a form of erosion, then
I’m feeling a little ob(li)vious tonight.
Like someone who talks with both hands.