Out of Pocket

I might die if he won’t handle me, I’ve got to feel his hands on me, the tricky, trappist way he turns to me and turns me into turning leaves cascading from a garbage can and leaping up like little dogs to fetch a fisted mid-air match. I too-remember his detach, his revving up and shaking down, his on me and between me, slipping through me, reaching underneath me, then turning off the engine, getting out and walking into town. I’ve watched his back too many times, retreating into paradigm, I’ve fucked and fasted my life of the mind. I’ve feasted on his kisses, those threats and promises, preemptive strikes that clear the area of crime. I’m burned and thirsty, unremiss, but I’d still dive with him into the secret wreck of time.