The Late Afternoon

I first took
notice of you
beneath your black
was humid as drenched

gray terrycloth
wrung in the sky
by a giant,
phantom washerwoman,
spattering us

with fat, wobbling drops
of tepid rain.
It plastered your hair
to your forehead
like our sweat would

the first time
it mingled in darkness
and I looked down
at your closed eyelids,
your flared, pink nostrils,

your parted lips,
and your teeth streaked
with lipstick, quaking,
sunk into the blackness
of devourment.

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