The drum stick ricochets off skin
Like the flutter of wasp wings.
They dance – thrust, throw, shove, grind –
Frenzied, hurried. Dirty
They’re pigeons in heat.
The tiny hair on their cheeks has risen.
Accidents happen – gaze, chests, bottoms, lips.
Around them, within them, their own blood
Turns to sweat. The air turns musky;
Their voices, husky. Zoom in, out of focus.
There’s nothing but the sound of them
Breathing. Nothing; but them.