After Terrance Hayes’ “A Gram of &S”
There were never lies.
Just tiny leaps
in detail. Turned soil
dragged in on your boots. Turned your gale
of honesty (out of guilt). Turned the peal
of my alarm. Turned my drunk plea,
and then, the billowing white sail
of your chest. Now silence is an unwinding spool,
its thin wire fence stretching between our sepia
faces. Now, this lapse
of our skin, an infinite aisle.