A Distant Architecture

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A Distant Architecture by Brian Henry  


The day’s languid tongue pulls the moisture

of our bodies to the surface.

You’d better fuck me before the hot.

The sun, stricken for days, pulses

bleary with its own pollination:

yellow dust ransacks the atmosphere,

the car, the pond, the tar of the road

coated in a daze of asphyxiation.

We converge on the narrow bed:

your legs will not spread wide enough

to allow for the loosening

to let you come

so you lean back, arc

from me with me still inside,

rub yourself to an edge.

Brian Henry
and Nerve.com