I stuck my hand
in his jacketed armpit:
shirted, t-shirted, still-
I was in.

Desire twines
every thought,
tender tendrils,
circling climb.

His pit was warm,
somewhat surprising,
his response to
physical such that
would suggest cool.

What was I doing
there with sirens
and a net he’d
find a hole in.

I pulled my hand out
clutching fibers
from its woolen vice
reluctantly curling
into a tight coil-
left weaving
thread together.

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