we caught the next race. she bet hers, I bet mine. we both lost.

18 Sep

———-

we caught the next race. she bet hers, I bet mine. we both lost.

 

her presence

crowned me with new life

along my skin, not touching

like the opening bassoon line

of a baroque concerto

returning

despite the ink having dried

on its creation

so many centuries ago

 

and now

I’m getting drunk

on the airglow intimacy of her

despite the fact

that she knows full well

that I drink too much

already

a soft obsession held in a damping palm

the early race at the race track

 

it was always

ten-to-one

but the payout was

always

worth it

and now her legs

compose a lemniscate

around my chest

barely humming its fragile music

 

disrobed

it stalls the weight of time

the horses all hastily leave their gates

a wave of coarse black hair blanketing their past

they sputter out at different paces

we smile humbly

fondling tickets insecurely

and then I notice that her coat is off

a strap of slate-colored lingerie hangs off a shoulder

the left one like a new enslavement

or a sweet tooth realized

and then a shiver of the autumn wind

makes the small hairs of her arms

applaud

as the allegro molto of RV 497

quiets Vivaldi for a brief pause

ahead

by just a nose

———–

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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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