getting personal

your mouth is an avenue of stones

the muffled depths, black in the river

aglitter with jewels and bones

the old city, swept across

by the words of your water

she says:

"I haven't seen such beautiful flesh

since the last armageddon!"

it's nonsense.

the flame of her beauty

has burnt green and secret

in the bosom of the slumbering beast

cradled in the sympathy

of night

you wake

violets like burrs in your hair

and I touch you

yield

to the fragrance of my lips

to the rifling of my tongue

sick and exquisite with nectar

wrung, still beating, from the blossom

in your crux

the ash grows muddy and black

in your teeth

the seeds run to pulp

deep lover

deep with old echoing sound

I am crazed with the sight

of the moon

peeking from inside

the flurry of petals and ice

that is the bed she spends her days

in the snowy noise

of your throat

you leak the oil of flowers

the melt of the early snow

and I drink you, orange rind

before you dry away