Late Night (Pang)

    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.

      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.


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