Within black feathers that perch on a pedestal, she
stands on an asphalt floor washed by static cymbals
that weave through bodies bumping clumsily together;
a sheen of she that rises up with eyes of red silver.

Eyes like a halo of stain glass windows over obsidian
with brown bear brows bristling at tees and suits
that slap and grab at the flow of her river of hair
winding over the hills and slopes of her dewy pear.

She sits and taps and drags a chip on her nail,
a red shattered mask of salty and wet sunsets.
The curl and pout of a finger and pointed chin
begets of me a twitch as if to hold her head.

I breathe in a shutter of her honeysuckle mist
that rushes to cover her meaty sweat and spit.
Its sugar tips into my sandy lips and tongue and
begs me to dive into that oasis of Sangria breath.

My hot skin stretches its trembling hairs to caress
her walnut varnished chest that peeks barely
out of her hide-and-go-seek black velvet dress.
Cheeks and belly stuck in a butterfly grip, I gasp
as she turns and beneath peachy lips gives a grin.