I slept under your patchwork guilt.
Saw slats shake to contain
Wanton horse, horny goat
Pornography of being, framed in knotholes
Oedipal intimacies of udder.

We glistened. Trampled every hot grain of sun.
The ticks made whores of us both.

I saw you sharpening your anger, and ran.

You found me later, at the trestle-table
Flipping my strawberry thumb.
While your beardless boy read my bare legs like a psalm.

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