The rich smell of earth still
slightly damp from a week of rain
comes up to our nostrils. & the
sun has the mouth of a shark, sharp-
closed around our groins. Your eyes
are shut; but mine part-open, watching
your cock rise & harden, & outline itself
against the denim of your jeans.
From where, plucked by my fingers, it
finally pushes forth, white flower, out
of the sun's mouth, & into mine.
1973
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