tib

Aftersex

My boy, my wench, my Sci-Fi captain
girl. Waning in the wake of our crimson commerce
like a dock. I think we should do it again
once we unstick this bitten skin universe
of breathing and smiling and you glow like a pulse, girl.
A slowing beachfront of metal and nipple and wet
(where I took my stand through an infrared pearl
between Riesling damp legs) like a gill or a net.
And your blood heats your blood lips above
from blood below. My cripple, my leathered doe
with boyish hips and fuzzy shins that strove
to lose my bite. ?More, more? as I blow
cool and dry down your slender dreadnaught
waist. Man, woman, you?ve taken me out.