Thursday 1/11/2007 11:33:00 PM

Two lovers carefully remove the lids from their plastic utopias. Two small pieces of candy finally free of their wrappers work their way passed the lips of the bed. Melting into one confection by the chemistry of lust.

Their spigots heaving dry orgasms as the desert spread below the surface. Cunning virus never showing its symptoms until after we are dead. Two bodies. Four hands. Four feet. Stucco on the darkness. Snagging every stray breath. Twenty fingers. Twenty toes. Bourbon on the breath of the pillows. Sweetening the poison.

Pointed nipples yawning at the ghosts on the ceiling. Open bridges. As sound trades punches with the sight. Ruptured skin frantic with the necromancers of pleasure. The fetal fist of liars pounding on my door.

In her overalls. In their plethora of pockets. A cryptogram of people she can't decipher.

Not then. Not now.

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