Friday, September 7, 2012

After the Pie

Your cock smells of soap and cock
and afterward? Still a mystery. 
I didn't take the time
and why don't I stop here,
why am I serving dessert
when I mean to give up only my ripe cherry lips,
the sign of goodness to come?
I move like a robot on a path that has led me nowhere before,
stricken by blank thoughts
by your surprise presence. 
You say little.
Not to confuse the past with present talk,
but you dig in with great appetite, 
right there in the dark hot room.
(I used to love it.)
I lead your hand. Feel this, I say.
(That's new.)
I hear only your breath  
and then we part, composed, and separated 
by clothes, language, cities, lives.

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