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
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
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
May 25th, 2016 at 4:50 pm
I am glad to see you still writing.
August 6th, 2016 at 9:53 pm
thanks. How are you GG?
August 7th, 2016 at 12:31 pm
I am good, Jen. “Good,” of course, is a gross simplification and euphemism for the liminal nature of my life–perhaps all life–as I continue the re-imagination and re-invention. And you?
August 7th, 2016 at 7:47 pm
I’m doing well. Being quiet. I was thinking of you the other day. If you ever feel so inclined, message me.