Small jolts animate the corpse of my body:
I discover my gut, my thigh, light in my throat.
Now I am immortal and made of wrung silk,
moving effortlessly as the haunches of horses.
Here, in bar-glow, you’re like a ripple of ink
that turns the night darker where you are,
slicker. I could fit my tongue into your gaze
and drink. I could put my finger in your mouth.
We circle each other the way flecks of dirt
together revolve toward a sink’s metal hole. 
Your apartment’s round the corner, I know.
We only have the rest of our lives.
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