| |
11
in caked in minute flexing avarice of the dumb spiteful sun i,m;
it laps constantly the empire of your bosom with its caving greedy
light
the effortless virus of its tongue whose buds are placid heaving
minstrels; aptly rapacious guards; with pointed spears and blades lusting
your rind most clangorously in the habit of its golden languor
devouring the specificity of your hips
the prim bud of your clavicles
and
and
the dim musky sanctum of your pleasing eyes
(kind sockets brimming jade splinters
)
and the sweet shock of your moss. between your thighs.
i hate him. the sun
|