About Z
In my dreams
yours is the whitest thigh
whiter still in August
against your bulk
your tanning brawn
Your vascularity is in line
with each of my desires to trace
to bite hard
to push against and grip
In my seeing
your thigh is so white
that I cannot bear comportment I
cannot bear to write you
in any metered way
This poem is an affidavit
of your smile’s long range how
static sits in longing how
swimming up from the bottom of a pool
you devastated me
with such a face and wet head of hair
that built down to squareness of chest
to trunks
to the revelation of
