by Jon Riccio
I love you I loom you,
I say at the diner.
The waitress’s charm bracelet
trickles onto imitation sunflowers,
talismans dust syrup.
I think about our sutured future,
my hands on a maple-sated menu,
cuticles like covered wagons, the hostess
a mix of bellwether and bouffant.
You sweep where I munition the gin.
You love me. Intercession looms.
I think about suturing our future –
a lovers’ sphere is more than
decanters and velour.
Nicotine dissolves in an omelet’s eaves.
What I’d undo to funnel through your maroon shirt.