vice, verse, vita

after sex louder than usual
we lay half-awake, listening
and learning– gently pushing
past kiss-tender lips
our stories, tasting thoughts
a bit damp from spit (and all the shinier for it,
glistening with shyness and need)

wallowing in words, rhapsodizing
about wordsmiths like burroughs
and cummings,
contrasting ella and billie and etta
and giggling over duke,

huddled together in the predawn peace
of a bed strewn with blankets
like a pair of coffee shop masters
too tired to reach the machine

trading pieces of pensive lyric,
lazy sleepsweet language
and a little bit of lewd love–
playing at being together
until the act stads as proof
of art imitating impersonating
becoming
life.

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