That late summer afternoon into
an earlier us, perhaps your
first surprise visit when you
jumped me and pinned me down
with your salty skin
and poise, mauled me with your mischievous eyes before branding me with your witha-wink
dig-my lusciousgirrlstink, your mighty molecules molesting
the room with not much
molecular space set aside for me
and why should there have
been? when you shackled me with witchery and summer grime
and then made me sign numerous documents BUT not
before licking my eyelids shut
so I couldn’t see what fate you’d
outlined for me, then, a mere 3
hours into this twistysoakedsheets marathon we were ravenous
for pizza but decided no! delivery
call no, not
until we read some Jane Kenyon and Frank O’Hara
to each other in this
jeepersjoy new kinda byU jungle
air, air thoroughly pickled byU,
finally,
so
very cool that we
post-coital postponed on pizza
delivery, right after you threw
your muddy toes on my lap and
said, first, poetry, asap.
/mr
/2017
Mike Rosler 