A plane is like a stork
only a plane can explode all by itself.
Because of this, landing is intimate
and I rush to meet you.
We drink to hug regardless
of the spectacle, unencumbered
like loons dizzy in the nest.
Your hair makes a room around me
as you moth-hover, withholding a kiss.
We forget your hair is alive.
Our heads can never meet
as the genitals do. I thank God for this
and remember your hair smells like all the girls
who use your shampoo. And still I gasp.
Yes, friends, another round of Patrón.
Agave came from a seed and there
the bats feed, tucked in pricks. She is
not the flesh but the spindled skin.