Biting Cattails

On sidewalks are leather-coated bars
flocking American eagles—
coiled rattlesnakes on yellow backgrounds.
Let’s turn around,
love, I don’t think I can hold your hand
here. It’s cold out now, could I ever be
your man here?

I’ll take you down, someday,
to a place where you and I are
everywhere. A place where the lights
spell out our names—the greatest refraction
—and the night’s visitors know why
we are here.

Or I’ll take you down to the river,
where you can bite the cattails
again, because last time I didn’t get to see
your eyes shine violescent hues
and fingers spread and give—
the cattail that broke and gave seeds.

Here I can pull your face in
and watch your lips split.
This running water does not care
who holds your hands,
or whose very being is consuming
every edge of my mind.

Here I won’t hide
my absolute mercy to
your bewitching laugh.
You’re biting on cattails.