but I should not be talking to you.
I shouldn't remember the dreams
I keep escaping from and into.
The animal thirst of lust and sweat
tends to override decisive capacity.
It makes everything so precious.
Wagon wheel, no stable rung.
Consequence, palm sweat, clenched.
When the woozy force presses against.
What the rock band covered then
among a torrent of change, drenched.
It had to do with starting a new file
concerning your whereabouts in May.
There wasn't much to go on, except
your transient refusal to stay.
One place or two or any and all--
the sweat drip from your thigh beaded
in the sun, and I could taste it with
spandex thread of jogging, sexualized.
The wild creatures picked up your scent
and discussed it over foraged foliage.
The leaves of your fig censure, dank
and curled by warm trunk, molting.
All the rosebuds robbed of youth,
all the acorns eaten back to fruit.
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