You make it easy to read omens in license plates
and furry, pepper-studded rain-heads.
There is so much I want to say. Maybe we should stop.
Have something to eat instead. Buy bathing suits,
or masturbate in separate rooms while we read
aloud the Russians scored by your fathers’
underhanded commentary.
Don’t tell me anything while we repose, not until
you learn something worth the page it’s printed on.
When you finally do, we can tip ourselves
back into the van under falser pretenses,
approach our limit. Not a boundary,
but a mathematical kiss that may never take place.
Here’s hoping that it does.
That you’ll swing from that parabola
like a tire over a swollen Virginia summer
and you’ll splash, surprised and silent
into my pink wet mouth.
--Will appear in the April issue of Pank Magazine
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