Aloof Abandon

Shirts patiently toss.
The curb of your
stomp reveals a wanton
ditch of progression,

a smack of aloof abandon,
the footfall a dropped chestnut,
a bearded renaissance.

I’m on top
this time—
knees bent, easily slipping
between my voice, loud now.

Raw. The movement, that is,
or the sex, or the words, caught
inside your throated need.

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