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Her legs seemed impossibly long, Like they were telescoping as he rolled Her underwear down her thighs And finally past her bent knees. Outside, buzzard shadows scudded across the ground, in ones and twos at first. Then, as she rolled onto her side, offering, In groups of eight or ten. He had no desire to step out into the hot sun to count Not because they’d see him. They knew where he was. They could sense dead things- Even souls and spirits. The parching wind crackled through dried leaves, Drought doing autumn’s work Ahead of the calendar. She had cried earlier. Though he had felt bad at the time, He had no recollection of why. Now spooned against her He pushed in slowly- Over her hissing. She was as dry as the yard And he had nothing to change that.
Hot Bottoms 