look at them bones all scrunched up like thorn pudding.
focus on the squid ink murk of your pine fresh linen
and uncork the vintage of your red vineyards
snarling 'round dead posts... on a gently sloping hillside.
thumping miracles.

join me at the temple of the spine, and i will petition
the long lost soul of your life's reason. I will take core samples
of your wet kiss, and slowly ***** the stars into place
that will keep your smile lit, and your thighs unfalse.
i will bark to Love's God and channel the requiem
of your grief.

you will only suffer the sting of bliss, and pirouette
on the tip of a snowflake's tongue.