“Let’s be in love for just tonight,” you said,
When I had better things to do in red
High heels. Encircling your big bad bed
Like scouts around a campfire, ahead
A ring of muscles pressing us instead
Of sense, misplacing wits, shoes shed — — outspread:
My map, your body.
Folded up: my dread.
___
The featured image accompanying this poem, entitled ‘Let it Grow’, has been used with the permission of artist, Wednesday Morning.
Coincidence did not cause the young man’s cheek to share the curve of mine in his gray, buttered face. His finger-combed hair wet with grease,
A dream of a 1920s quasi-candid shot of Debby Harry, mingling graciously among a grandiose Studio 54 scene. Spray the lens of my life with
I miss your coffee-covered breath, Early in the morning. It made me hungrier than death For a thrill without a warning. I miss your sweet
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