Wednesday, July 24


inclined upwards thirty-five(if I were a cannibal
I’d start there )the only cardigan dustily upon her
rims of flesh unwinding wound round her belt

eight months August the sun rose to tan her—those
who got up early toasted bread the colour of her
as we made beds to rest in night’s shade

The wings of pale skin spread across her cheeks
( the crease) bloom
; once whole, broken butterfly in two

lend me her meat, her punctuation feet, her fleshy
upkeep that rose steadily above two feet, of fine blonde
that my tongue n teeth would like to meet

forgive my excursion, this cornershop love poem;
for the estuary of her shit, the runway of rejections,
the worst as with the best from her to here.

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