ante meridiem VIII

By Jax NTP
savoring the butterscotch intervals
between seconds of non-sextions

my belly is an old dryer, your touch
is an even older pair of grey vans,
thump. thump. when you draw

lines of suspension on my hungry-is-
not-a-strong-enough-word-for-this-skin,
is it more or less suggestive to tessellating

frayed nerves? e-late. illicitations. your top lip
arch is a heron mid-wing-flap, shawling
tripwires of potential. to unpack our eager

fancy now would be clumsy,
pedestrian. i am a mullet, fawning
for symmetry, at best, waiting for the jump.

the inflections in your sighs cut
off at just the ripe angle of 83 degrees, they slant
unto me, into me, thicker than calligraphy,

more percolating than pulmonary veins.
i’m not the initial soot, but leftover
soot on side furnaces of brick buildings.

your body, three quarters of a winter’s night,
your body, three quarters of a winter’s night,
i could sleep in the cold of you