Steven Kleinman
I wanted to know
all the stories of bad sex;
how it could be
like climbing a tree,
or how it is like paralysis.
Led by a friend we entered
a secret bar
in a secret city
through heavy red doors
where Spanish kids inside
shouted English lyrics
to U.S. rock songs.
Without the red violence
I dreamed of I painted
your legs.
Your tongue in my ear,
I painted the pine tree
in front of your house
the red grace of rising,
I painted the robins.