Dark truth

I don’t know if I like
taking in the

ass

so much as I
occasionally need
that vicious reflection of life

There’s a vibrancy
about the grunting,
dripping,
weak-jointed
sheet-twisting
awakening
that I find relevant

There’s a baseness,
a tawdry lowness
that’s an honest infliction of lust;
more honest
than making sweet sappy love
under a crepe myrtle in summer

Because the velvet feel of
summer on your shoulders
is an illusion;
but sweat drenching
the sheet
is real.

I don’t like,
so much as need,
to crumple into the feel of your
hand gripping my hair
as you push in,

both of us straining
against
truth,
dark sex,
and want,
with nothing

left

to keep clean.