ROBERTO MONTES
LOVE POEM FOR THE FARM I GUESS IT’S TOO LATE TO LIVE ON
No ideas but in things
No things but in arrangements
You dickhead
I love you easily mistaken
For a human face
And the crowd that redistributes me
What is it mapped
But the archipelago condition
Of good city people getting better
Blue rot
Unlatches my joints
So that joy might learn to swim
A further distance
To reach my finger unheard
Of in the mouth
Of the man I love
My body as it breaks
On the wave my
Body until
It’s not my body anymore