What about skin          asks to be kissed?           The melt of it?
         
           The pocket                 it opens for the hot            shell of you.

Should be a rule          unless you’ve tasted       a man’s spit

           you can’t                    douse him in flame.           Not a bit of coffee

old tobacco                   the air smells                    of burnt hair and rubber.

          That’s your                 breakfast coming up          in your throat.                  

You wouldn’t                know looking at him       charred and smoking

          the orange                   he had that morning         on his finger tips.