Thunderhead
The amber clouds part. Honey dissipates.
Syrupy piss dissolves in a cold, clear rush.
I savor the sticky aftertaste of a dream
in which my tongue was worming its way
through rich soil, tunneling into
some body’s slippery velvet.
I throw off the comforter and marvel
at how much longing remains
in this seemingly barren reservoir.
The planet is noisy with morning,
teeming with latent desire.
The blinds rise, curtains spread
of their own accord.
Wings beat against the window.
Throbbing, thrumming. Golden.
I throw it open.
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