Sweat,      the pale glitter of putridness 

in my underarms            clinging to the  

whorls                of your ears — I say 

 

is it summer and you say yes     you say

is that             the stamen and   I say 

yes — sometimes the sheets curl      wet 

 

like   the leaves    of your shameplants 

shushing against   our salty skin — you

poke at the soil      plucking out tufts of 

 

mold from the lips of clay pots    as you 

loll naked     at the window,       pick my 

hairs from   your sticky cheek or  mouth

 

my insides pink with ants,  fat clumps of

them. Tendrils suck us to dew, tack limbs

to the spiked pads     of venus flytraps

 

come        away from the snotblums and

come into bed