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Flesh works, a crucible pungent with ore,
melted slag all soggy, a drenched poppy —

sweaty backseat acts leave your puckered core
stretched wide. Your hands work around my neck, knee

pressed to my chest, eyes glazed. In an hour
you’ll be back home, dropped off a block away.

Propped on one elbow you blow sweet-and-sour
spliff smoke into my mouth. Mixed with noonday

heat I trace salt stripes down your spine. The air
grows large — pungent with lub-dub sweat, lip gloss,

lube, your waxed pearl — while a milky sun ray
fills up the backseat, obscuring my bare

thigh wrapped under you, smearing cum across
your ripped orange tee of Che in beret.