August is still,
the river, carnal,
and cuts the counties,
standing water
in unploughed fields.
In the headlights
a cat chews carrion,
its head is working
side to side,
and as you spit
a fingernail,
the floating memory
of a kind of kiss;
of how she went
for flowers in
a foreign night,
and, dark with
other language,
window open
for nectar moths,
the pumping heat,
a disco rising,
her returning
with the words,
‘how like you this?’
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