Gone with Summer
Air, this air,
shifting autumn
reminds me
of her ribcage
panting in the doorway.
Maybe it’s the way
I stare at the nude, grey
sky so often…
so sexy, sexed by clouds.
I pulled her skirt up
once in an alley
behind Poolhall Junkies,
kicking bricks and tonguing skin.
And we scrambled home
to slip into cotton bulge,
where I chewed on her fingers,
nibbling, nibbling, nibbling.
Meet me on the roof
of the North End
Athletic Club.
We’ll watch the jade harbor
and oil slicks
in the tugboats’ wakes.
Return to Volume 6.1
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