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—