Monday, January 25, 2010

cock

There is nothing left of him but his cock. When he rolls over in bed it is there, pressing against the mattress or else tenting the thin cotton sheet which he uses as a shield against mosquitoes. It is hot this summer. There is talk of climate change, waters rising. The south pole has melted and the water from it hangs in the air around him so that every breath is a thick humid lungful. He sweats and there are different scents on his skin. His hair smells like clothing left too long in the machine. His armpits are sharp as acid. The scent of his shoes precede him particularly after a run. There are these smells, but more than these, there is the scent of his cock.