August

Steam goes walking

in curl-toed slippers along

slick boulevards of skin

radiates out in silent

slow-motion bomb blast of heat,

rising through fat, torpid

snakiness of hair

escapes pillowed volcano of lips –

over tongue, past teeth –

meandering humidity of blood

that rolls and slithers through hothouse

chambers of the heart.

Steam, in filigreed undulations,

entwines lashes, ascendant

knots and tendrils ghosting from

flat, brown bogs –

twin swamps,

hot and crocodilian –

writhes pluming and smoking,

funneled from nostrils like the cigarette

wraiths of a film noir vamp

dreaming sex in black and white

fogs the senses like whiskey fumes

or Voodoo incense, or the scent of melting

stars, or a husky-voiced stranger

watching the puddled,

liquid slide of ice

between bare, steaming breasts.

e. yon/2002  (From the chapbook,  Fruit & Bones)

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