summerlove
Mark DeCarteretwhat is left of the season
fumbles under her shirt
having seen most the stars
back into space
seems that here where the heart
rests amidst its own lies
the eyes will have never found
their own place:
so he will take leave by pen
where art tomorrow’s cameos
thy buttery thighs?
w/a scarab’s cramped script
but once again she won’t answer
he now forever on whose back
she has flipped him
the words barely sounded
never mind even lipped