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.