Tonight at half past nine, meet me
in the olive grove. Deconstruct your sweetness:
I like it when you steep your voice in venom.
Tell me the names of graveyard flowers, and pluck,
pluck them clean, pluck them
at your knees,
pretend they aren't for me.
Bring me stories of caves in their nakedness,
 bring me my Atlantis.
And under this mustard streetlight,
remind me of your secret,
for tonight at half past nine,
only the moon is culprit.