Perilune

Sitting on the humid
porch, a languid man
spits sloppy scotch kisses
at the marble moon.     

 

 

Between drink and ember
cherry tips, he whispers —
stubble to vesper,
a napkin poem;

 

 

a high-hanging peach
dangling above his teeth —
a milk-white girl perched
on the horizon...
 

 

 

    her bashful blush in
    my smoke-lasso
    periphery.

 

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