British Boy/Canadian Boy

Poetry

A blown kiss floats above the ocean, lingers
               dreamt, a thumbprint stamped
from nectarines with fuzz of peach and stubble of
               face, lobe of ear, grazed,
bitten gently.
The nectar drips down
               soft neck of smoke, sweat, sweet
smell of Indian summer, legs and twigs entwined, not tangled.
               Burning blue and brown
eyes look away, the music stops but doesn’t.
And he and he fuck
And he and he make love
And he and he coffee through the rain walk that pours
               wine on his t-shirt of flowers.
A smiling text, he cries of passion, of
pain. A morning stir,
a phone on the pillow, murmurs and        whispers of
sleep, ruffled hair, brush
of sex.
Fingers touch and trace
the outline of feet, fear, feel
of trousers and/or pants and/or underwear spilled on the
floor, a flood of photographs, stains.
And he and he scream
And he and he lick sores
And he and he wade through letters,
write, teach, finger the spine of the book back, tongues.

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And he and he hold hands above the ocean.
Breathing under the water.


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