for Herman
He sits quiet. casual on my bed. I crawl about. nude. photograph the deception. we created while fucking. His shirt. plaid. buttons-down. The book. Baudelaire’s. Paris Spleen. a master. of form. without. extra. periods. Perhaps because men don’t menstruate. One leopard-print shoe. gifted from a woman I drove to a disgusting motel. after her man beat her. which unfolded into another untruth. I watched her suck. his lips. hours after. I saved her. Both high. on. tina. I never saw her. again. The orange tag. a condom wrapper. Claims to be special. “for her.” but leaves us with impression of plastic-coated cherries. on a sundae. special for her. or not. His cock. uncircumcised. Perhaps. the most virtuous part of his body. I’d rather ride. bareback. but he cheats. The wine. a blend. from the west. my favorite red. We looked when we heard. the glass crash. The light. a desk lamp. because the camera is actually a computer. sans flash. Positioned at the bottom. of the pile. his coat. He made an effort to hang it. but it fell. when our fucking tangled the web.
The only omission. is love. What we have. is destruction. the floor. his foot.
