Too Rare to Die

Our men amble together tangled in shadows
of dusk, fingertips brush, sticky laughter, backs
wet, sweat trapped in the anti-curve hollow just above
belt, just before we ought not think his
ass

or where he stole his mouth, our man with more pout
and the smirk of someone shrewder, clever eyes
threatening to fill your pockets with stones and let you drown
cold

in the promises he makes and the company he
keeps, no weight or means, whole days of wondering
what he thinks, the certain myth of eternity, his
long peppered fingers reach toward without
cease.


4 responses to “Too Rare to Die

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