Long Distance

It’s called something nearly unbearable,
the room on your computer,
inside of which the men shine with sweat
and shea. They, the men, are passing
another between them like a lit joint, though
they the burning paper and he the lips.
Plainly, we are in your bed, watching porn,
though it’s purely academic, everyone merely
a student of pleasure. Except for the boy, the wet
coin, who by now has opened his second,
toothless mouth, swallowing from both ends,
his eyes wide and then he’s gone, vanished
into the body’s thicket and so the men,
though never touching, do —
all four of us, one wooded quiet
carrying his cry. We take
a screenshot, to remember this.
What are we trying to understand?
In the morning, I’ll fly home.
It will be months and months until I am again
marked with your scent. I’d given up,
you know, resigned myself to the idea
of the idea of desire, the body — my body —
a locked door. Love, if that is your name,
I’m a practiced hand. I’m good at waiting.
And meanwhile, the sugar maples, miles of them,
flushed and damp between us.