two men 

the year after the last bee died
all the fruit turned to glass
& i showed you how to chew orange slices
without the shards cutting open your gums.
a lot of swallowing. we went out 
into the woods to look for greenness.
not for science. we were searching because
we needed to feel useful--
you with your binoculars & me with my hands.
i wanted to love you right into 
the end. i wanted to be the last 
body you touched with purpose.
we walked deeper & you wanted to 
stop holding hands. the farther into
the woods the less gravity pulls at our skin. 
you told me you sometimes tricked yourself
into believing in memories that weren't
actually yours. i asked you to please 
tell me the memories. you described 
sitting by a river with another boy
who wasn't me--the river flowing 
& not made of blood 
like all the rivers we knew.
i was jealous of him. whatever boy
lived there only in the thickness
of your recollections. what right
did he have to describe an unfading earth
to you? would you know me only as
the falling panels of sky?
the limbs of trees turning 
to coal on the forest floor?
miles away the city was working 
every single hour to manufacture fresh desires.
i may not even love you by the time
you read this. i told you i wanted to sleep
but what i really meant was i wanted
one chance i pretend the woods
were just a house & we were living
somewhere easier. i wanted a chance
to be the boy in your memory.
you told me another one about
pulling an onion from the dirt
& have it not shatter. i bit your
bottom lip & you shivered. two men
need each other to survive. 
two men fell asleep & woke up
floating slightly above the ground--
gravity leaking 
from the soil-- gripped onto 
each other. promised to never 
turn to glass. two men 
were the only green in the forest.