Hot and sticky
drenched with eternity

the milky come spurts out
an equatorial

softness the spit
of god

my prick is only
the way for it

the bridge over
which these

messengers travel,
bursting forth

marathon runners
rushing to

the front
at the start

of the race

their information
that the war

is over that
we survived

that no one can

our history
that all the ones

who came before

stand in this
room around

our bed — Yes
it’s crowded

but who ever said
evolution was

comfortable? My
Russian forebears

stand far in the back
keeping their

fur overcoats