Three syllables should roll easy,
yet sear acidic the tongue,
refusing formation
of empty expression.

The sun shines no brighter
than the struggling bedside light,
and rivers flow no fresher
than saliva leaked in sleep.

The malodour of rank roses
drifts from every kitchen,
where flies **** on dishes
of all the dinners not savoured.

Inside we search for desire; in drains,
under beds, between stale sheets. 
The arid well resists fornication
as we ***** for absent frisson,

the floral miasma lingering,
as if to scoff.