At the Poetry Reading

I noticed you
looking at me
across the bar.

We exchanged a smile,
and I lowered my eyes
to your stare.

I have washed your
scent from my body,
yet I still shiver
from the remnants of
your touch.

I allow this.

I wonder who notices.
I wonder if they can
smell the sex in the air;

if the stain of seduction
is as apparent as the
cigarette smoke which
halos overhead.

Could they tell
I wanted to touch
you from across the room?

I know you were nothing
more than a two o’clock
storm that flashed through a
New Mexico afternoon drenching me
for in an uncontrollable downpour
before passing soundlessly over
the horizon.

I know the monsoons
of summer dry fast
as the sun returns
yet during all the,
reading and reciting,
souls poured across stage,
I couldn’t help but
summon the soft of
your skin under my nails.

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