(over your crimson bed)
out where the cry
of your alto came ringing
over the groans
of my baritenor
you grabbed the slipping hips
tripping over thumping breath—
the apex of our championed
burns—dousing those lips
ingenious, sovereign in
our wake—my wake not
light, unequivocal in darkness
with royal sheerness:
no trumpets blaring
until i came blaring
over the rough manners
you reformed from me
back over to politeness
to restore those rhythms
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