Clubfooted Poems

Creaturely

Rough hands upon her,
not near, there, or where,
nor the seashell tip of a fingering care
            or other
            lack-lustering lapping's
but the groundless clubfooted grasping
                  of long incoherent passions.

A clinker of desire hammered anew
                by the forceful hands
of mist shrouded Nibelungen;
a dross now forged bright
  into red-eyed gleams of flame.

She who bears the weight
of such a slobber-lipped changeling
                covers his paws
with a tracery of spidery entanglements
the softest spell-binding webs
          that break his knuckles;
refining hot bones
              into phantom kisses.

For her satisfaction (and hers alone),
she captures that clumping stray
            caging him deep,
  and he left with no hands but hers.