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GROCERIES
You’re so haptic in the morning
Window unit blowing ash Line of neosporin down your thigh Whatever technology your fingers have for finding me Sounds out my lips / muffled We tussle I drop Baby what’s a fulcrum What’s full To exist outside everything Jobless and on the clock I wore the strap In my teeth I drug it down Thru clench and sweat of me saying You’re so baby Little struggles in murmur i Touching the edge of whatever plane it is We’re on, surfacing To stretch a half hour I have sex pee on my cheek I have thirty-seven reasons why We should never go back to work I have a slip of paper asking it not to end Running a lighter over what We mouth The morning in window smear The milk and the bubbles and the oranges Half peeled Granola bars you keep bedside NUMEROUS
after Jack Spicer Holding fast to a couple of genders Only knowing what’s happening When it gets told to you by someone on screen Never the sensation of getting sucked off Inside an invisible organ Or how the flesh gentles Synthetic plush made machine round We found in each other a pulsing The way you flipped the blinds back To quiver what’s natural Till it shudders and breaks Drowning the blankets in predawn Laughing as we gasp |
