p, 25

i told him
if your beady little eyes
look like needles
i can’t be there

he laughs

feels his pockets
“it’s still there”

he is the duck
on the pond

he whispers
sweet curses
i moan
he moves lower
i groan

my anticipation
weakens me
his fervent spirit
weakens me

the tips of his fingers
know no boundaries
they run amuck
always searching
they find mounds
and dimples
wet spaces
they dive like herons
in the swamp


find me
find his pockets
find his lust

slowly we
are rusting
cracking at the edges

and it so goes
all ends in dust

in gasp
in breath
in comma
in cusp

– Sheila Sea

4 thoughts on “p, 25

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