Afterwork – David Miller

After overthrowing french fries

and half-opened condoms,

what are our sticky hands for,

or loose, salty fingers,

if not the prefab taste of flaked

and formed lip-gloss

the sweet peppery brine of my skin,

the cracked berry paint

of your breathing?

let’s smooth over the plain, dry sheets

with tired comfort,

let’s tangle our backs

in the strange iron of desire,

let’s silent

lips and oil

painting the blue and green

Dutch countryside across the comforter,

each gradient, each scumble

timed to the bass beat of

oh my god


of course,

the wet-on-wet rhetoric

of whoa, where did that come from?

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