Wet Denim

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.

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