Choctaw and After the Movies

As your late autumn fingers cambed silver over a late autumn finger, and the kohl, blacker than unlit asphalt, drawn into circumventive lines, made into two points that took in everything that was not yours.

You held it all in your periphery.

I cared not to notice, as I touched you tall and round through you blouse. I admonished cloudless nights and other drivel with breath made summery by the cold, all the time dreaming of places, other than my teeth and palate, to hold my tongue against.

You forever tethered to goods fenced long before I came along to review your empty photo album, called an agora of all possibilities, this left me homeless.

I was resigned, only to distract you, once or twice a night by letting you, in hushed but aspired panting, sing your secret song to me.

I might add, that a baby's touch of Quinine dropped through juniper and ice, would have been enough for me to endure your endless apneic looks, until I learned how to breath again.