we look so good on paper,
don't we, two hot bandits
making love w/ words &
bodies, perfect, a scamp
poet & rogue "fictionista",
each straightforwardly
attractive in an "indie"
way, your luxuriant
breasts brushed by an
urban outfitter's t-shirt,
my sprung parts scraping
tight jeans, perfect, you
could build a movie
around it, the burning,
bare-bummed affair,
only somehow the movie,
the papers don't account
for the borders, boundaries,
all the ways our humanity
tips the scales into "edit",
our deadness to "erase"
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