Today, a miracle because no one vomits.
We eat grass like dogs, hunch on all fours
chase the white dragon until the gel in the lava lamp
resembles our bodies.
The dinosaur language he chants when he’s high
gives me tremors. Seismic waves crack my earth;
I cannot walk a straight line.
I swivel, grind my teeth,
lick Reynolds Wrap.
We sit on the patio, concentrate on bridged mountains:
their concrete necks, shelves that hold their rib cages.
The rock fragments, fingernails, jut from a sheet of skin.
My cheeks swell in the presence of his tongue.
I roll it around, remember how he tastes
in September, when his sinuses thicken
and the saliva in his mouth turns to syrup.
We cool down with water
that smells like last winter’s snow.
We scribble letters on the breezeway floor
with crayons, try to write our names.