Men

Nothing foretells what to do if
falling in love with him again.
Concrete not made diamond
by felonious softs steps.

No accounting a dubious daddy
ghost wire-singing or
hampering currents
between the legs,

curt breezes seeping. Blink
and they're side by side. The
baby's man had Brylcreemed hair, his
left middle finger topped by

an aircraft propeller,
a war he was (slightly) too old to fight.
Grounded. The
woman's pearly white. Bare.

Clean as umamirose stink.
Hair tufted, for the pulling of. Head
back. Agape in tensile, in expectant,
in throes, in trust

mode. Him and him a slight
ambergris slaver. Metal
or nipples. To choose. And ride and ride and. Yet
saver the present so that nothing

links. Too soon reconciled. Hands,
eyes bletted adult. Love
swoon-beckons a little
death across a greater divide.