Slow Drive


Fleshy fawning scenes
inspired by lacing removed,
or caught in the tattering
scuffle in midday afternoon
displayed only to be buried
in the shade of morning’s cocoon.
Light, but hazy is the body’s wake
from this dizzy defiance
of sensual energy displaced
by the candor of strangers
who met only to play
in this courtroom so elegant,
expertly made, and noted
as but an eloquent mistake-
quietly presumed a mutual approval,
voiced only in guttural cries of delight
drenched in sweat under moon’s light
and morning’s subdued-
finely dressed in the ashes
of a pitied exchange. Faulted,
both point the finger in blame
to the trusted party to claim
that in the game of dishing guilt,
no victor remains, will be named
for all choices weigh the same-
a person can only fake change.

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