The day is dead and lain in fog – not, “laid

in fog.” That’s when the city’s odd twilight

rolls in, turning streetlights wispy, decayed,

grotesque. Among the shadows our delight

comes when we gambol and glow. All that wet

air, pools of cool oil, smeared by ghostly palms

between your breasts. Morass of dew and sweat.

“Straddle me,” you say, kneeling with maelstroms

in your cunt, tempests in my cock. I curl

down the valley of your cleavage. “Seismic

upheaval?” Indeed. Slickness, all foggy

and cum-splattered around your neck; a pearl

necklace. Drastic love: the sort of drastic

pleasures others just dream about, dimly.