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.