I saw your boots first, braced against the tables,
and splintering the benches. The feet inside were red,
the leather laces tight, done up in haste
the way that all your gear was; would still be.
How ignorant I was! Distracted by
the tenor of your muscles. The raw sex
slung at your hips like knives. Your sermon
undid my hesitation like a toga.

I should have known, I should have stopped to think:
when I first felt the bola of your voice,
careening round my ankles, pale as pigeons;
when I first saw your iris full of that
cacophonous and blue species of sand,
that woke me up that night; that wakes me still.