Love, Poetry

Fractional Impropriety

I’ll take the cool
night, to see him
lift limbs
in his big man’s jacket
shuffling half scarecrow
half David Byrne
and 2/3 Fred Astaire. He fills
himself and mercifully leaves
some to spare
I secretly call on sky
to ease back, get on
with spring. Heat
this joint up just enough
to dispense with buttoned
cuffs. Inside the place
where his right elbow
folds, a single pink mole
I met once
dwells in shadow. I wait
in the rapidly diminishing
nth of my patience
for shorter sleeves
and longer visits
with fissure
and bend.

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