The rain made ghosts all down their shirts that clung.

Sugimoto’s tongue. Nakano’s crop beats

time, too. “Again,” iced through the downpour’s lung-

drowning hoar. “Again.” As Aoki bleats

beneath the lieutenant’s hands— Nakano’s

thumb draws circles where before none lingered

“Ai, but teaching what, strumpet?” Pearl-butt knows

what, could not say— Recruits held their hunkered

breath, now watching their Captain, now watching

this plum ballet. The way the lieutenant’s

lips brushed Aoki’s neck. From: “Shadow’s Yin —

shattered cum cup, plum offered, blood booking.”

From: wet shirts. Downpour. Sodomitic trance.

Crop beats. Teaching what, strumpet? Yes. “Again.”