Spring: Cusp
I can feel,
summer coming.
It’s the short skirts
and the dotted
collarbones, salt
drops curved
with throaty moans.
When the sun
refuses to sink,
no one blinks-
No one thinks.
Help me settle
the blood,
in my neck:
Feed me quick.
Not the sweet fruit,
from crooked trees
or baked bread
from simple kneads,
but maybe a mouth
full of pleas.
“Darling, won’t
you please?”
