“…think I’m losing myself but know I’m safe with you and tell you the worst of me and try to give you the best of me because you don’t deserve any less…” (Crave, Sarah Kane)
Laid bare on the soft blanket concealed within
The deserted hayloft, I hearken to the belled warping
Unleashing its music on your now arrived skiff.
Is stupendous the precision of the swallows’ tiff
Above, so perfectly coordinated with the imperious
First touch of your reassuring palms on my cold feet,
Thoughts crushing again onto this efflorescence.
The asphodel you ooze, charged with night scent
And cordiality, from your tongue in my lambasting mouth,
Is an insufferable tipi that keeps warm and tense,
As a quaint vignette, the sense of you on me.
And is eldritch and fulminant this illness that, as
Surreal hints of Docetism, envelops our clenched bodies
In the dawn’s laving halo; amenable drivel
Of re-born, re-lost, and re-found.
Consumed in the sheer addendum of sinful redemption
That infiltrates my vessels, my nerves and my marrow,
I will amputate again the callus grown out of the day’s
Apprehension; unfathomable thread of imminent dread.
Awfully crushable atrium of caustic intimacy,
As the unfastened folds of the broken, gory ticker
That I unceasingly mend with you and despair.