We turn so reckless on the brink
of longing. Teach me the proper tense

for this deadlock, both of us waiting
on blocked signals, too many messages

lost en route from me to you. Call it
bad gateway, faulty router, the hopeless

distances between you and me. Parametrize
this hunger we share—your insolent hands

and greedy gaze, my appetite for the space
you inhabit, for your all-American palette

and blue-eyed shield. No fair how your
soft, languid drawl disarms all the bombs

in the minefield. Perhaps for you a minefield’s
just a field, for you a mother tongue

is not some rune that breaks your mouth
and heart. Give me your childhood

in all its aching glory, dirt bike collisions
and back-lawn barbecues, firecracker

mishaps, a pledge to believe in. Give me
this America you so revere,

pass me your vision through our rites
of violent longing, your fantasy

of gleaming city upon a hill, yes, force me
to see what you see, to love it too.