Daphne dreams Harry. His flesh flowers
around the stem of an old scar on his ribs.
Harry does not insult Daphne with buttons.
He waits for her to wrinkle her skirt in approval.
Daphne offers the still, dark cloud of her thick hair.
Vertebrae in her spine bustle like a balloon string
when Harry’s fist stopped pulling back. Harry has
soft emerald veins frozen in his rocky, long biceps.
Harry does not say Daphne. Daphne does not say Harry.
They listen politely to the lips
of her pussy settling like leaves
on the hillside of his teeming penis.
Her orgasm matches the clarity of the blue sky
giving more shape to the barren, black tree limbs.
When Daphne reaches to adjust her skirt,
Harry knows to lift himself off of her; she
turns to feed him from her mouth. Harry
sees Daphne pretend to choke for a lark.
Then Harry hugs Daphne, and Daphne hugs Harry
as he comes so wonderfully deep in her they both
feel Daphne spreading her jelly on Harry’s shoes.
Bio: N. W. Hall has poetry in decomp, Shampoo, Blackbox Manifold, UP, and Zygote.