Down past the police station, two addicts doze
without shirts, in lawn chairs on lemon grass, the zippers
on their jeans warm beneath their palms, their palms
still sticky with cum from an hour ago— bent behind
the sycamores like an angle of the cross, their crooked
backs cinnamon, worshipped by sun.
It is August: the true ending of a year.
I’ve grown sick from trying to love who I am.