something in your hair stings like rust.
the soot black night? or the scent yet unnamed? or,
is it the tickle of the naughty silky strands?
i don’t know. but on that rain-soaked night – armskin
against armskin, the flash of flesh – under your umbrella,
something in your hair stung me. and now:
i crave the gasp of hunger in your mouth
i crave the surge of longing in your breast
i crave the wave of assault in your hip
i crave the grip of death in your thighs.
a, my dear stranger: like your umbrella,
unfold me. bathe my creaking ribs
with the serenity of your inviolate oil.
