Hot Bits of You

Sweat pumping out the city’s
summer skin – miasmic sex enlists,
persists – thumpingly resists
the least refusal. Walking
becomes gawking – stalking

down the street devolves
into the flat perusal of parades
of bodies which (not who)
entail the utter slavish capture
of the core of you – and you:

the predator who simply
has to cast quick looks to hook
what he pursues: your prospects
propagate: a zoo of fleshly
probabilities insists on coming true –

and yet no single one of them
would do. And so: and so:
here and there you go, stumbling
like a drunk towards whatever
glow now draws you from

the flesh ahead you strain
to see: you cannot let it be:
hot bits of you are left in every
breath: every molten shred
of it excited – and requited.

.