i have in my hands,
your round,
virginal fruit
and my eyes pare
all clothing
  reducing you
  to obscene ******.
all your juice
  trickling out of,
slow is the
      slither.
pebbled body after
    pebbled body. builds
its pace plastered to wall, and then swiftly runs
    with full gravity.
succinctly, a
   sidereal persimmon,
until your peels wear
   me thin and your flesh
  rots in compost,
my mouth
savoring the emptiness.