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.