Over the roofs there soon came the red wind

of late June, the one that twists, raises skirts,

shirts, my love for all the things that have sinned.

You cup his plump rump. “You spurt how perverts

squirt,” you sniff your fingers, slouched on the curb.

It’s odd how the hot air perturbs you more

than his sweat stains, my unzipped jeans. Perturbed.

Aroused. Whatever. There are few hardcore

soft boys — gluteus divinus — left

and you’ve taken us both, despite the daft

dry heat, weighing the sinew, brawn and heft

of each of our cocks while we spurt and laughed.

“It’s Beltane, cock-suckers!” Wind in your hair

as you toy with my lips, his derriere.