The Poetry of the Name “Ade”
the ego stretches its arm—& drops all things
good
for the moment
depending on my mood, he breathes perfection.
it’s a fresh-carpet tube-socked combo. the eyes cut
low
it’s an old game.
this space ain’t safe but I’ve learned to love
& loathe a blunt session. we torment muscles
that held the melvin to our chests—it rests inside
the elbow grease. gusted
it’s the game of devour
& we fix & move
‘til it can’t no mo
who’d you curve to slouch here?
it’s rhetorical since the game is tag.
it only details these brown skins
& these hot sins..
Only to grab her neck—
& wipe machine sweat
for a kiss
as delicate
as this
so, everything else is water underthebed—