Let’s
Dukes up,
fuck-me,
that snarl you bring —
winds stinking
all the way from your chair.
Please the world to take me out.
All that’s left is you
working that chin.
Spacing
First you, then me.
Roll over, check out the wall.
You got a nice one.
So do I.
But, the cool round of your bum
came to me like wham in a dream.
You took me without question.
We fucked for three months
just to get the smell of it.
With you and me, every liquid is netted
to constrain the light.
Even oatmeal gets complicated.
You know me, I don’t go in for
half-assed
fuck-overs.
The ink you autographed on my insides
has long since dried.
I have dragged every part of myself
down the street, up the stairs,
fingered the cracks—
Dude, I followed you from the
‘L’,
up that side street off Addison,
birds screamed, man.
That word —
Your
hand on my throat
stay put.
Hold it
is
the closest
we ever get to saying
what’s between.
thom vernon is a writer,
actor, and educator causing trouble in Fredericton. See thomvernon.com for
more.
