The night is a hanging
    cluster of bruised
    black Hua Niu
    apples souring in the
    humidity. The
    buck’s bloated remains
        taste just as sweet—

                a nocturnal scavenger
                is haloed by the
                blanc baccate moon.
                                ۝

  Matt,
      Some nights, I morph into a wingless
    mosquito, or some other shambling
bdelloid-esque slug-thing, sucking down the
runny dusk through a black silly straw. Some
nights, it’s just plain sweat—the thought of a
damp mouth skimming the sheer of a cheap
satin nightie: my thighs slick with spit for
                            no damn good reason.
                                                                  A.