one moment off west 139th

i sit waiting
with nothing
but the conversation of a ceiling fan
to keep me cool
as you shower nearby
a weaker man
would be jealous
of the steady jazz made
with warm water as knowing fingers
and your body a nubile saxophone

i sit waiting
hearing cast off cat-calls
from old heads at the corner store
eyes closed
waiting for the creak of the door
the wafting scent of shea and lilac
the whisper of your hips beneath the towel
as you walk to the bed
hum Nina as you pick silk to slip into
and Harlem for a minute falls silent

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breathless strawberries (for lolette)

your lips now

will always be
the impassioned birth
that lies at the end of this
pause i call
waiting.
fresh strawberries
nude, inviting 
with the gleam of arousal
plump with desire
awaiting the bite 
only a lover’s kiss promises.
your lips
do not promise a respite 
from that cauldron made
by bodies coursing against each other
in fact
your kisses may burn best
without any oxygen
or reason to fuel.

midnight bourbon and cool silk

she walks with hair like
acrid smoke tousled with perfume
eyes daubed in azure at their edges
and flesh like condensed milk brought to a boil.

her touch must be like
the first feeling of cool silk
upon freshly showered skin
in a room that greets dusk openly.

curves beneath her blue shift
dress as waves that lap at costa rican beaches
and her words pour like midnight bourbon
leaving me a pleasurable burn as i take them in.