Heat haze at dusk. Ho hum clouds melt and meet
in gray and green flames until they become shrouds
for leaves of ribald trees. Across the street,
three floors up, Pauline’s cello turns darkclouds
to dew –– the most vulgar of all juices.
Each night she repeats her scales, saws out tunes,
twists old lays new. When I speak of crotches
I speak of my own; my cum, like the moon’s,
splatters in the dark while the music’s glee
sets fire to all it touches. I grind my teeth
and cum under the night’s skirts with Bach’s “Air
for G string;” while ‘neath the cellist’s airy
g-string Bach’s night heat yawns wide. Underneath
this string’s calico crotch: thick dew-slicked hair.