. . . I've even had sex with the Cynocephali. All the firm static parts of a man pressing the static flesh and bones, while the dog head barked its orgasmic rhythms too loudly in my ears. Like a struck bell struck straight against the drum. Suffocating. Our bare backs. Both baying to the moon. Rocking. Until the red color of his tongue becomes your sweater hunched deep down in the pocket of the bathroom. The shock of his tears collapses us both. We fold like paper umbrellas in the wind. Shook into shaking. Without the lights on, he can't hear what I'm saying. When I'm screaming his name into the dark red contours of his spine. He says he's cold. To me. I run hot water in the shower. Rub his naked body. Alive.