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A poem about the way William Gibson would describe a hickey

The sky was the color of a first

fuck’s kiss,

going peach & sand to road rash red then

dusk ray green—

well her fetishistic implant leaden static over

dead-eyed fishnets

made him feel the translucence of flesh &

go over

w/ a line about the sky, a bleary

pavement of clouds

heated & rippled by two shearing slipstreams

ruffling the wet

pollution, as the UV index rose &

he sunburned.

A shy about as sexy as an oven

mitt spattered

with cow’s cream, she said, & take that

how you will—

cream is a gift from god, I drink milk

every day,

& heaven is the hiss we’ll make when

the broadcast ends.