canal
Your face is in flare
Like gates open and frequented
By the curling laugh of vines.
A liquid promise trails from deeply back
To end at my feet.
Sometimes, the thick lines that began at the
Exit from grace lay together, pouch to pouch.
This too is marvellous when the cream leaves holding
Hands stay waiting behind embrace.
As such when they appear again, all wedded
In the trunk I love the most, your throat
My dear, your first birth canal.
cutis
On a whim, the stars fixate
you are possibly dead to the world
that would not fret over you.
Only dead to those rational about
the inflection of your brow
this tawniest of bodies that you are playing.
Melting the cutis
I find you in the slough and
I love you right.
