pane

25 Monday Nov 2019

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Mist moved beyond the tree tops. “Let’s resume,”
you said, guiding me. We’d hid from the snow

after school that day up in your bedroom—-
with your mom downstairs. You bit your pillow,

keeping your groans in. Off in the forest
dead things rattled; a wet dream, all rime wings,

toothy gristle, stirred. Hoarfrost and dark lust
make for some corrupting magic; somethings

good grades can’t save us from. You soaked my palm
as you curled and jerked — letting a touch more

chill in. Chill and conjure. Even your mom,
sensing cold queer power, paused at the door

while frost and nightmare pressed against the pane,
watching you watch me lick you clean again.

hoarfrost

25 Monday Feb 2019

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After school the god Frost loves us naked —
loves how we kiss, our blood filled with fire-juice

flames. With our snowsuits peeled down, your rosebud
peeled wide, with your lewd laugh, the one you use

when you’re on the edge, with the fogged-up glass,
Mad Bad Winter watching, with your groan, “nein,

nicht mein arse,” but it’s often in your ass,
often in your mom’s shed filled with old pine

smoke as you stare without blinking. Gods lost
still love us, love our fire-juice, love the shock

of flame. Frost loves us even though my cum
doesn’t splatter plumbed, feathered, like hoarfrost

on glass. — That’s why it stares as we walk,
hand in hand, through dingy sleet and dusky slum.