I like the creases of you, the lobes and flaps and folds,
the unctuous junctions,
the overlaps and sticky ripples,
the woozy crevasses.
I like the knobs of you, the grips and nibs and baubles and
fleshy bubbles, the
squishy tips and buttony bits and
the hard stops.
I like the bones of you, the wrist rubble, the basso rumble,
bassoon, the tin-can sturdiness of
your hips and the ridge-line shins.
I like the stink of you, the armpits' vinegar pink before a
bath, the sourdough
pith, the fever-water, the heady
I like the thought of you, the dorsal-fin suggestion of your
name, your deep
even in the next room,
Even in my lap as a rock-chunk gut-shot can't-talk-back-jack
Poem with a Five O'clock
I hang up my good clothes, redeploy my books.
I Windex ants in the stickiness,
brandish a broom halfheartedly
at two pigeons cozying above the breezeway.
For the fruit flies I make no excuses.
opportunists crotch-sniffing beer bottles
and kiwi rinds, any stinking thing.
Then the hours come rabbling in
with their cigarette burns and their cups outstretched.
I do what I can. I
please the first with cream,
but these five smirk at anything but gin.
Call me the bedwrecker, the ruthless
rainwatcher. Call me
I put my lover on a plane this morning.
Peter Kline's poetry has
appeared in Ploughshares, Tin House,
Poetry, Crab Orchard Review, Crazyhorse, ZYZZYVA, and elsewhere. He is the recipient of a 2008 Wallace Stegner
Fellowship in Poetry Writing, as well as the 2010 Morton Marr Prize from Southwest Review.