At the neighborhood pool,

we perform barefoot baptisms,

trace bug-bite constellations,

become our own radios on quiet suburban streets.

Weaving the way back to splintered decks

and sticky syrup puddles,

we starfish like playing cards on uncut grass.

Hands become heavy on hips that

spill from high-cut bottoms.

You squeeze tiger-stripe thighs and slide

along the underside of my knees,

slick with sweat and yielding.

I kiss you, our pink noses press together,

bodies curve like two question marks:

hesitant, hovering.

A tangle of tightened muscles, legs

compete for crawl space until they tire.

I wait for your breathing to steady

before I slip away.

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