I’m watching my country admire its teeth. You said there is no god and I looked up. The scar on your arm is its own sad music, pink ribbon, the kind of song that makes us want to fuck strangers. There will be no god when this is over. What gave me the audacity to touch you? The moon doesn’t care. She shows us our teeth every night. She is so chill about the way we fuck up her space. Tell god to come get me. From a high enough vantage point, anything looks like begging. Tell that to the dogs! How they will howl all night long. They think we must be benevolent beasts, too – all the ways we can hurt each other but don’t. I say let’s call this touching a truce. Will we still beg when this is over? When I don’t have any teeth left. When you have the bite marks to prove it. When we pass this quiet between us, hounds for a world on fire.