untitled # 510

sheets pulled up
over his head,
rocking to a cadence
no one else can hear,
 
she is in every
movement made,
a circular reference
on a perfumed breeze,
 
fingernails dragged
through empty space
catch on a dust mote,
rip a gash that
weeps time
over their faces,
 
they wallow in it
as if it might
might dry up and
leave them gasping
for more,
far more,
more
 
glb /// “untitled # 510”