Making out at the Whitney
Reading Wojnarowicz 30K high,
your distant body solidifies.
I dribble his words across your skin—
warehouse poetry leaks from my lips until
the verse of waterlogged lungs pours from my mouth,
kisses flood round your nipples,
teeth tightening, the soft contours of perked flesh against the sharp bone of teeth,
and the spray of poetry, wet and hot and electrified, hurricane force,
rushes forth:
our body a cyclone,
his words the wind,
my breath the water,
your skin the risen sea
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