by Tommye Blount
We cannot know his legendary head,
now hidden by a peach. Yet his torso,
all ink and Equinox, is backlit from inside
the phone: hard math; a circuitry of low
fires-sexy algorithm. Otherwise
the flexed bicep could not dazzle me so, nor could
his cum-gutter's v, his barely-shaved thighs,
nor his bottle rocket all set to flare.
Not on this phone, he doesn't have any face
pics to trade, nothing above the shoulders.
But his chest-bury my face in that fur!
Would not he, were it not for the cropped selfie,
arouse like a porn star. He says your place
or mine. I must lie about my life.
From:
Fantasia for the Man in Blue
Copyright ©:
2020, Four Way Books, NY
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