The September Sonnets: III

step out into the sunlight: it’s warm
and deadly still. when her right hand shakes
your lips will pucker. her lips smack
and all about your body you tense.

you will temper her hair—a swarm
of wild birds upon a branch as it breaks
with a giant thud and crippling crack
to much you understand what is immense.

swagger in its most unruly form
is that of her in your bed—her who cakes
lustful earth under your nails and on your back
where you stave off all sorts of sense.

there’s no harm: there’s no way to know
what keeps impracticalities in stow.

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