Unprotected sex is the only kind worth having

Early morning spoils
left out with last century’s milk
and all my poetry turns

into this sky broken out
with stars again itching
and burning through 2a.m.

There used to be a god for this
but hes buried in france or italy

where his mourning women are beautiful
and drunk and naked with purple stains
on their skin running wild and moaning.

Here under the western sun
we’ll lay curdled in the brush
of young america with raspberries
in our thighs and backs and
dirt in our fingernails

then burn our offering
of penicillin in the incense tray.