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my pink leather microskirt
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Bad poetry one of these days you’re going to find me prostrated
upon my belly upon the bed, legs bent contently, in that pink leather skirt
you enjoy so thoroughly, glistening even in the soft light
or our evenings bathed in old ceiling fan bulbs, you’ll
remember our every still falling piece of breathlessness and the minutes
of both our hearts pressed into fire, both bodies swelled with such
exhilarating suspense wondering what each of burnt
husk will seem like next to the other(,) wanting your eyes, only,
to remain alive to see some unknown form of
greater beauty at all costs, and then
you’ll remember also the
thousand nights of cool, wafting airstreams
the birds gone South, the crickets dead or missing your parents
never call, my books massive and lonely without me, nights
so silent that you should have heard a heart beating
but you didn’t, and you then
where will you go?
