Ecobutch from Cornish just made me her favorite, / which is more than I can say of Kitchenslut100 / or 101. Ecoslut might be the one / for me, and because of the wonders / of wondering, I can click / on pixels of my affection all / night and see their private / peccadilloes rise beneath my touch. / One likes fisting, another vanilla / ice cream licked from her hair. / Where do people come / from, where do they get / fetishes for tomboys in stilettos? / I don’t know what I like until I’ve seen it / on a pillow 300 days in a row. It’s ok / to wash the pillowcase as long as it spins / in counterintuitive ways—we all have / idiosyncrasies, if not mates. My / notmates are many, and we share / so much: birth month, love for loose- / fitting modifiers, close-ups long / on soft focus. Most employ / the selfie, which shouts how / alone they are, unless you count / vitamin supplements and hair gels / on bathroom counters. Context / matters, and in a finite you- / and-me verse, I need to hurry / and admit I love you and how / does anyone rappel out / of herself into another without grave / risks? You have a habit of tilting / your brain back, with a question. / You have a body with windows / and doors and once you left / the lights on in there, the way / people in Amsterdam in tall, slender / houses on sleepy canals will, without / draperies, a kind of invitation, a way / of saying I have nothing / to hide. I appreciate now how / you take the long way from A / to A, how you believe Z or hyacinths / or maps to crumbled places may / figure into it. I’m trying to articulate / my lack of attraction to people / trying to do things. Would you like / to love me without trying? That’s / an abstract proposition that ought / to come with an airline ticket / and an overhead compartment. / I want to go away with you so we / can come home together, so we can stand / at passport control and have the man / in the glass booth glance from our papers / to the clock on the wall, back to us, and ask, / as the maître d’ once did to my first sweetheart / and me at The Lark Supper Club / outside of Iowa City in 1985: Isn’t / true love wonderful? It is, and after / the man waves us on toward the carousel, / after we claim our suitcases and the beagle / named Rex trained to sniff out / heroin and pears and illicit French / cheeses makes a beeline / for me, unbidden, I’ll unzip / myself, letting all my / light, for anyone in this / dark world to trip over.