I Don’t Understand Saturday Poems Either

There’s a wild apogee of understanding
when the moon is suppose to rise,
your black hole iris fills with pigeons
and please-keep-off-the-grassy heart.
What’s more wild to us than concrete
and your thighs that ungive to the sea
and laughter? It’s cold enough for tea,
but mild, moon spreading about
in grainy mustard light, undressing
ourselves for us like a cannibal.
Let’s be hung over when happy hour
comes, unleash a migration of feeling
while our brains still swim and sting.
I promise we’ll be OK as long as
we blink at the speed of blown glass
and never worry about how many
toes we lose to the frostbit night.

-C.S. Henderson