The Soul’s Happy When

Going through wood
floor years older than me–
although dusted corners,
smears and chipped

imprints don’t seem
so dissimilar to the skin
I wear, carry out
to the porch under moon

light to your gaze,
mismatched chairs
around a coffee table.
I always choose the beige

armchair with a lighter
shell pattern to lean my head
against in the last hours
of the day, under soft glow

from strung-up lights.
Smoke one more Nat
Sherman with the sugar
filter, smash into the ashtray

before giving in to your raw
sweetness laced with teeth
and a half-genuine snare we’re
simultaneously setting…


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