Said the Tobacco to the Hand

Has your master ever made love

without touching—just dust

carried from legs to air to mouth

on wings almost too gossamer

to lift your body. How do I feel

to the touch: your calluses

like pestle, your palm, mortar.

You leave me desflorado. You,

tender guillotine. My white tongues

crumpled like the sheets

of two damp deserters who’ve forsaken

the bed they made for a looming dawn.

How often do you dream of running

yourself along a taut spine

that never labored under a name

not her own. What can you tell me

about the ship, its hollow

gut. What kind of dark

it carries: the sweet flesh of free

-range sky, or bitter entrails

even the buzzards would allow

the heavens to repossess.

When spat up

onto cold, foreign ground,

is it best to put down feeble roots

or to refuse to flower at all.