Fog in San Francisco, by Tom Mukasa

Fog in San Francisco

Sweet cuddly coldness,

someone coming to lie with me,

you undress me,
you cold sadist,

you leave a chill everywhere you touch,

your quick slippery moves,

tire a bedfellow,

but still a cold grip remains,
you are gone,

I can count all my bones,
you leave me wanting,
unaccustomed to your predator orgasm,
mist,

now you go out to catch another,
no doubt penetrating without preamble

through a window, hole or vent,

this time all surfaces,

feel you wrapping around them,

only you know what your plans are,

to what end, no body can tell,

the skunk came out of its den,

to challenge you, not with limb,

it bent over and you swallowed her,

poor thing,

seeing you had your victory,

you swiftly collected your robes,

and off you went.