Thread

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.