There is a madness
in the taste of flesh around your ribs,
a sweetness in the gnaw of your thumb.
Even at my age
there are still places taken on faith,
but know, here, that you carve my face,
furrow it with the mean etcetera, etcetera . . .
ascetic only in premonition of complications
in the visionary diet you bring me.
Your mascara underlines run down my shoulder,
my ear catches in the holographic language
of your thighs, your neck, all the succulent
notes of your laughter crying,
"Everyone, sometime, has loved and been loved wrongly."
You stare at the back of my hand,
at the line-map of my face
as if they were paths with no exit.
My throat and ears blister with the gorge
of silent nap around your cheeks. What do you say?
I cannot see your tongue's movement
behind the teeth of that vowel.
How does that word taste?
Spit it into my mouth,
let me hum it down the curve of your back.
I hunger for the desire in our destiny,
your hair in my teeth. . . the violence
of our sating.