If the silk
it on the stalk.
An unripe ear
The Salt Skin
Exposing my teeth with his thumb
I taste the fresh salt skin:
this is what a man tastes like.
In between my wettish lips,
my spit eases the odd finger
to slip decisively behind yellow-white teeth.
It taps on the back wall of the exposed bones
and when my tongue raises to meet it,
the thumb presses hard, pinning it down.
And I could bite but I won’t
as the thumb presses firm on my tongue,
pushing the slick muscle
about my sepulchral mouth,
my tongue roaming the cavern
as if I were speaking
but there is only quiet wet.
A voice says hot in my ear, suck
this is what a man sounds like.
Thank You Come Again
A bag is caught by a tree.
The branches gouge through
the round plastic face which rasps
Thank you come again.
On the street below a box has been split
open in the gutter, noodles gathering
like worms, greasy, wet, and crawling.