Cloaked in patchouli,
stripped of dry sweat
and stubble, no one
sees her but anyone
and from the watch
we stand the same, a stumbled
mass of swollen teeth,
picking at playing old
and once Neil Young
belted flames from
her lips, and dirt
was in your socks
and wrinkled, whispered
brows were borne
of summer's smirking dusk,
of fingers clawing carpet.
