Never touch-starved again, forever a chub-bellied baby sexed big

Skin a heatmapped catalogue of hands still wet still grasping still blood-fat

Behind every steam-slammed door, playplush beds as good as checks

Whole home stitched with only these rooms, only this near-rip big

Kitchen table perfect island for the stranding, meals propped heaven-large

Backyard a honey-dripped grove named Eden, ripe land of no bills

Whatever drops first, spice-adorned, sauce slicked back-to-front

Splayed open slow, tempting a spill, grateful to be devoured like I’ll

Make my giggling groommates, spit-tethered hips churned tender flip

Down smeared-open mouths or whole wedding cakes or any drown we like

Just measure by the fistful how thick this slick can coat a sigh, add ten

And that’d be balm enough to dizzytrip my lonely and her cartwheels

                   THE POOL PLAYERS. 

                   SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We

Left school. We

Lurk late. We

Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We

Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We

Die soon.