Your wet smirk cuts the muck of mid-June, warm
milk-soaked copper, through the static of Seltzer water.
My wing tips slip on cotton shards from sheets
we took our gavels to -- Our modern law; thick
runoff from a silkworm-sodastream.
In a dream you took my nose between your thighs
and inhaled running coming down Christmas morning. Only
our feet were exposed, toes velcroed to our throats,
green lit cast iron bubblegum-blow-pop -- and then we fucked.
Our sweat soaked ash making charcoal
paste we smeared across our eyes, blinding us
like fear within white hoods. When I remember it all,
sometimes, I try to sip it, but it’s all too heavy;
two women wading through the tide in wet denim.