EMILY AS A SCRATCH, A KISS I would sneak outof my own skinif it meant that I could catchthe angle of Emilywhen, from my periphery,she decides to bethe sun graspingthe porchof my whole body. EMILY AS WE IMAGINE THE SWARM The red boxof our sex-ual imagination was emptyuntil Emilyhad the idea that we mightbe able to becomea thousand of each other& have eacharmy of intent thrown intoa devilish cloudthat prayed only for more cloud.I never fullyunderstood what she meant,but I closedmy eyes for a while& when I openedthem up, I had no moreexpectationsfor her body. EMILY AS SHE REWINDS Home with me,Emily is processingthe fringes of her dream-work& wonderingout loud why I amso dedicatedto remembering each fray inour pattern.  “Weare the conquering love,” she tells me.“We should re-writea lot of your shit.” This is whythere are fourthousand of these poems.  She’ll nevercatch up withour own stories & if she doesI’ll have been deadfor years.