i, night, hung about thy cheeks more splendored beams crisper and wholly brisk with wind than even winter could. i stroked about the penultimate hour of your face the little and stranger carelessly perfect lips of my face and drinking so stilly the sky is abrupt with normally clothed stars; **** and playfully abundant. i lay my heart with thee and i am increased. i lay hands with thee and i am between the velour of your not-covered thighs making, with you, an errant child like Demeter and Poseidon (who hangs his restless skin upon the nape of the coiled neon streets. hinted at his edges just; the circlet of the bay, i wander in thee night.)