The body has longed for this:
to dress in slightly more fitted clothes,
take the keys, drive for many miles,
pay for gas, tolls, parking, and the $8 beer
held like an anchor against the tides.
On a bar top, a man, stripped to underwear,
varnished with sweat, moves his hips
as if pressing them into tomorrow,
wraps an arm like a caress
around his face— here,
where there are only men.
It's the thick callous
on the man's palm against
the back of the body's neck,
a place hidden as a fort
built in high, swaying branches.
They are in a bar and a man is wet
from the bucket raining down,
a hundred shatters of light
splashing the crowd's desire. His hand
moves to the open stretch of the body’s chest,
pulls it toward:  “Kiss me here.
Kiss me here and here and here
and—.  Don’t stop.  Don’t ever.”