the black dykes at 40
letting the words fly like smoke uncurling from our mouths
we lie in bed with dykes ten years our junior, make
pot heaps to share, sleep in the same flannel sheets,
plot colored artist collaborations underground and not top 40,
draw the constellations from our lovers to each other,
worry language and tease interstitials at our debuts
fighting dotage, we pledge hot-age and buy expensive Italian
boots from Russian women in the village, study our gray hairs
under green furry hat flaps covering creases that creep
steady around our faces’ horizons, my ass is two handfuls
and some left over, and her jeans have to shape her flabby rise
and she can’t do handstands in the park anymore but damn
it’s good to be us, pretty and fly in the city at night’s edge
