Sweet Corn
If the silk
is wet
and red
then leave
it on the stalk.
An unripe ear
should not
be picked.
The Salt Skin
Exposing my teeth with his thumb
I taste the fresh salt skin:
this is what a man tastes like.
In between my wettish lips,
my spit eases the odd finger
to slip decisively behind yellow-white teeth.
It taps on the back wall of the exposed bones
and when my tongue raises to meet it,
the thumb presses hard, pinning it down.
And I could bite but I won’t
as the thumb presses firm on my tongue,
pushing the slick muscle
about my sepulchral mouth,
my tongue roaming the cavern
as if I were speaking
but there is only quiet wet.
A voice says hot in my ear, suck
this is what a man sounds like.
Thank You Come Again
A bag is caught by a tree.
The branches gouge through
the round plastic face which rasps
Thank you come again.
On the street below a box has been split
open in the gutter, noodles gathering
like worms, greasy, wet, and crawling.
