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