He used in the sack in a poem, and he meant it.
There should be a saltshaker in every garden to sprinkle warm, yanked tomatoes.
I watch the orange wedge make a home for itself between his lips and teeth, pulp to his gums, sweet.
He writes erotic poetry like salting his eggs—without first tasting.
His voice itself reminds my nose of freesia, my shoulders of sunlight, my toes of low tide, my tongue of August pears, my stomach of warm milk, my eyelids of half-moons, of wine.
Every time I buy a grocery tomato, it refuses to taste like July—disappointing like an over-dry kiss, a sunset with no red at all.
His poems are fluorescent light—blue distortion of color.
I want to swallow the last swallow of warmed red wine in his glass, because of what lingers there besides wine.
I tried a yellow cherry once. It didn't taste like a red one, but it was good anyway.