For Shane Meyer

When I want a drink I want it
In the root of my throat, the thick
That goes up to the mouth, down from the tight chest-hole in the middle heart-black
Below thick roots down teeth, into shoulders,
My rib rack, the heavy within.
Into biceps, in bottom vertebrae, my groin, and my hands.
I can barely make a fist for it but I can't keep hands still for it. I need
it in my nails.
It fills the bone below my penis and above it, all the way back, to the
second half of my first hole.

When I want to go down on a woman I want it in a cave
In my cheeks, in a mouth back of the mouth, like a throat —
Under it and half-way back, in what was my stomach, once,
The pre-extended me. But re-extended back into limbs, the hook between me
and the world, back through world gills, like sharing light with women
in a city restaurant, back turned from the window between us.
That's how I want it.