Old Books And She

I entered her
last night. Through parted limbs, then
parted.
Forehead.
Chest.
Hard back books watching.
We wrote a story for them.

I told her that I never saw them
read. The ancient people.
I bore holes in their heads while
they
bailed strong hay fields
and
branded our hamburger.
They could remove sexual organs
by blood asphyxiation,
dry fruit in plastic air,
grow meat in sloppy hog mud,
they did it.
They did everything with books
but listen to their stories.

She came down from composition.
Pink panties, black casual,
laughing
about my pork fields and grease.

One day, we will be ancient. Will the books
remember us?
Will we be decorated in hard backs? 

We laid, backs hard on thin, white sheets.
Skinny lips impressing lit
cigarettes, kissed wet from
brick liquid.
We drank for the moon we remembered.
The pale one that danced with
us
before we lost the Others.
The brunettes.
The scrappers.
The pretty little foster kids.

5am lost the luster. So, we stopped.
I chose blue for my tears, and left.
She chose white sheets
sprinkled with biography.

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