Arriving like unsolicited mail
or propositions from women
who mean well, they surprise me

as though I get to go to Mexico
and no one will be wiser for it.
Together with my own lies

and the magic of sudden tears
bursting with riches
like broken pinatas, they comprise

years of my wasted inside life.
Even now, as I start to talk
about them, I taste their lactose

and curse my fat tongue
for shaping words whose sweets
will betray me. Take one

into your mouth. Suck hard
on its orbicular curves. Feel
how your nerves rise, then blur,

comforted by a candied future
you can take full measure of
only when it diminishes, melting

like a slow kiss. I love this,
this proliferation of sins
to savor, the blending to none.

(Originally appeared in Pivot 42 (1994): 45;
forthcoming in Gallery of Ghosts, Story Line Press, 2001)