Late Night (Pang)
The night is a hanging
cluster of bruised
black Hua Niu
apples souring in the
humidity. The
buck’s bloated remains
taste just as sweet—
a nocturnal scavenger
is haloed by the
blanc baccate moon.
Matt,
Some nights, I morph into a wingless
mosquito, or some other shambling
bdelloid-esque slug-thing, sucking down the
runny dusk through a black silly straw. Some
nights, it’s just plain sweat—the thought of a
damp mouth skimming the sheer of a cheap
satin nightie: my thighs slick with spit for
no damn good reason.
A.
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