Caution is the left hand of darkness,
flashing, muted movie-house black where
he slid naked fingers across vibrating leg hairs
to touch the hot flesh inside my shorts.
He who could not, would not,
ride on my back at the amusement park.
He who threw the clothed door shut,
transfiguring from affable kindness to
male harpy, insatiable for flesh.

The way he stood after a wet day of
disappointment among the cool river
and cliffs and the scattered naked beauty
of those who are like God – wanting for you a
share of joy, but not caring with whom you get it.

The same shamed and kissless head drooped silent,
the same hand, sad now, crawling to rest on mine
over the gear shift, breaking
the stale hardness
inside me.