Front Porch With Flowers

I can't
get used to the fact of you, the
flesh-and-bloodness, the feel of you
rough and warm like the bark of trees.
I cannot get used to your imprint, the red
folds on my skin from sleeping against
the knowledge of you.

Brown as nutmeg in the sun, I've
lain end-to-end with the rest of humanity--
I can't get used to the feel of them,
the smoky smell from their matchstick souls.
The heat is a visible noise, bright and
bell-loud on my skin. This is
a freight train of light, an insect-thick
cloud of illustration; I cannot get used to
the thought of you heavy as a stone in my hand,
I cannot think through this haze of summer.
My eyes and fingers blossom red like lacy
hothouse flowers.