quick--on the way home.

"i mean, short and fast." at last
he'd gotten up to brass tracks.
"quick ride–come on, the bullet,"
--i shook my head into that, grin, grin,
his butterfly irises outsized
only by his cheekbones--"okay." i said?
"even got...what..." sputtered. our sparks
unguttered in bowled candlelight
a checked-out table under us.
hands fingers unsplicing, & in his pocket
dug for bills and dropped them unseeing
(35% & the server thinks it's impress-
ing me it's for) re-enlaced soon after
we took our seats, long coats hiding
busy sweaty hands and crotches, fervent.


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