AN AFTERNOON ON WEST 90TH STREET
Long, kinky hair
like the kind you find
between sofa covers
or your father's
old vinyl car seat,
tickle the inside
of your thigh
with the expertise
of a grasshopper's leg.
You remain quiet,
not daring to disturb the
undulations of her
exposed tropical shores
that have become
warm then hot then hotter.
Smoke from incense
and tobacco remain fresh
despite their
memory in the heated room she requested,
as does the scent
of body against body
twisting, turning,
contorting.
The mathematics of
touch
computed in square
roots and differential equations
breathes its own
smoke
no less potent than
the one before.
The calculator of
your mind and hers
both unable to keep
up
with the buttons
pressed
until the equation
is solved,
swallowed,
consumed,
minutes or maybe
hours later.
As for now, the
transient space
between one
equation and another
reveal only moments
for a few breaths to find their place.
Elijah Bruce
New York, NY