The tribesmen were there,
letting desire flow freely as water,
and I was fucking the women,
letting a prod into me to be made useful,
face in a salty rump
for the grasping snatch
slit leading me forward.

They took me down their electronic river
their heights of glass and their scimitar smiles
rash touched waiting rooms
and the half gloom of rock bridge undersides
names of a painted torpedo
rugged paving stones.

Mirage that drums the air
breath's net yanked flat against
agitated space,
and a wanting bubble
streaking past a stick-shift moon,
red mushrooms blossoming
in the pond's bottom
where the forked tongue
separates into sexes.