I don’t have ideas, I have knives.
They’re plastic. I use them to write
my name in the sand. You ask me
to sing, so I take out the gin
and pour you a glass. We toast the end
of the end of ideas. It wouldn’t be bad
if you took off your clothes. I’m ready
to blink if you’re willing to gnash.
I don’t have ideas, I have names.
They’re plastic. I use them to place
my mouth in your hands.
Honest to God, you’re the best
that I’ve had, and I’ve had enough
to know how to forget. Just look
at the sand. Now put down the gin.
Press here to bend, press there to withstand.
V. Joshua Adams is a former editor of Chicago Review and teaches literature and writing at the University of Louisville.