As if I were an Island, and this here, the ocean - cool breeze not yet a tempest
seagull shit blanketing exposed rocks - crags - boulders in the surf -
what sense of humor they must have?
to endure such ridicule
as well with me, weather’s judgement washes over my thick skin
vanishing behind the veil of the second hand - tapered toward the south.
Single and horny in the desert
but alone
only thick contents
difficult to cut through - uneasy to open
this bygone romance
with a dry mouth
soggy pits perspiring for no one - no ingrown hairs surface above brief
goosebumps
making kin with the tastebuds
fitting perfectly together
sweating and shedding
laughing as bedfellows do
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