I miss you, Patrick Swayze

When the neighbors writhe in simile,
vibrations make way through dry wall, tender lit on the old plains-
Native Americans thought you sounded strange too
Settler backwash, swilled on sacred land, and the Indians creeping on hillcrests disregarded those fires

But I can hear you make love,
and I hope that isn’t replacing lust- complacency for rigor, so routine..

How do you know he loves you?

Suction me into fetal pose,
sound bleeding through the walls;
lull me to sleep.