night one

The night is a cover,
the inside is the hot
stink of someone new
of bedsheets, objects
hidden in drawers and
smooth moistures.
tightening chests
and tingling fabric


her skin was ripe as
undercooked chicken
prickling pores stiffened
into thigh texture, sharp
short hair, friction like a
finger across fine paper
down to the tangled
spiral, skin-sliced
thinness of membranes
drawing lines like a
nail under heat

tiny breasts feel more:
legs are wired to the
breath in her ear
a glassful of cold wine

of mouthful sensation
the sea is too tight
for words, worn
into parting fingers
to trace all the way down
to tongue meets like warmth

a heart under silk
bends bones, thong muscles
and suntanned weight
thumbs the blood
past her rolled up eyes
to her bow strung packets
of nerve and tucked up flesh

her eyes were soft
as reading light but
I still hold my breath
her arms pulling now
to a slight recline
and here - I go

guarding the nerve-string
behind her knee, straps
of fabric no more, undone
like a pen cap,
rending ink all down
a giddy thumb-tip -
and a place to wipe

transcribing the static
of itch from cotton
to strap
to tongue, mouths bored
and stripped of juice
now just cell phone
resolution snapshots
in hang-over half-smiles,
- as nothing was said

‘that was fun’ -
maybe a counting
number or ten, but that,
too, can wait until morning -
night fuckers




poetry