Free Entry, Week 2

I mistook your Rome for a vase
filled with money, but it was just
myth, a balled up society of gods.
Your hands are a plaster cast,
complete with fits of breaking.
Your face winces into a corset
of lines that road from scalp to neck.
I mistook your roads to Rome
for rivers, the dirt so muddy
I thought I found rain churned waters
to drop my body in. At night
the animals come to drink its stories
of water. I am not the only one
to figure it all wrong.

I mistook you for Rome, the statue
you crafted of yourself, a slow cracking
of blisters string around your neck
tell me too much of your mortality.
I mistook your hands at night
and drank your stories of war.
The bed muddy with our bodies
and the ones that were there before.
Later, I held our sex in a vase,
our sex, some kind of myth
only gods believe in. I found
wrong in the animals the will
to drink without asking first
for permission to imbibe. I mistook
the river for our bed and slept
in dirt while animals lick my toes.