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Hook and line arc, lure-flash
splash; mouth quirks, click-click reel.

Sammy sits in the sun
on a rock with a book.
Sweat-curls flick flies, toes tip
the water. Back shines bronze.

Noonrise, not a nibble
and where Sam browns, fucker,
you freckle and pink. Catch
him stretchin. Spin it in.

‘Burgers?’ Box up tackle,
brace for a ballbreakin.

‘Mighty angler failed to catch us lunch, huh?’

‘Suck it.’

‘Think I can arrange that.’
Sam slithers down from his
basking spot, deep-dug dimples
and ‘Need help with your rod, there, mister fisherman?’

Beer-spit laugh. Dry it up,
seein he’s serious.
Big hands, belt loops and Sam
rocks you, walks you back, jeans
to jeans and tongue to tongue.

Calves bang Baby’s bumper.
Sam unbuckles, buttons, zips.
Strips you to your knees and folds
to his. Licked lips. Mouth like
a damned volcano; chrome-
black sears your shoulders, thighs.

‘Jesus, fuckin…’ torrent of
cussin, Blood-river-come
rush, bones go molten.

Shadow. Blink up into
moss-rock treacherous eyes,
kiss into bittersalt.