There are days the grass is a bed,
or should be if we let our hair down
if, when on the way to grand central,
hungover-thirsty, booze-bruised, young
desperate-happy, we want sleep-
sex in grass over commuter chatter.
There are days our bodies belong on top
of a mountain where we taste
truer to ourselves. The heart stays broken
because we let it belong in a mouth
instead of a hand. We take anchors
wrapped in silk over holiness.
Which is the loneliest: one night or
nothing, stretches of nothing-want
when the body, in a desert, seeks
another after letting go of the other.
What is better: one night or
an anchor. Self, we are something.
We belong with others, sloppy, almost-
not-young confused crusaders,
crossing bars and each other’s teeth
for a chance to be laid on the mountain.