the poetry of things

the red is a jewel

culled from rubies enamelled of rust

torn liquid from the meat of the bone

the red of the albino's

virulent pupil

the amputee's satin rag

now percolating in you

diffusing along induction lines

forking like roots in the skin

the livid health of the poinsettia

the sacre coeur of holly

moves, like expanding heat,

through the chilly lust

the white polyvinyl nude

of your rigid gleaming body

I touch you: there you are,

tactile scent of clean saliva

and tongue, the stony cairn

in which the past has buried the future

your cold arousal burns me,

static image; I feel

the polish and ice of your surface

and the exquisite throb beneath

you are flushed

with the hot red of the virus

the appleskin eating

your cool edifice

naked pearl of flesh

I wipe the frost from your brow

I wipe the fire from your thighs

disease of immunity

consumed by paradox

I make you nothing