and i say the sun is callous for nothing ever shall be so beautiful
as the delicate fronds splayed unerringly before my hands. and i do place my vestige in its thrall and as it is i am nothing compared to the softness of its belly. so lay inlaid with rouge splendor and indelible.
beneath and under and my tongue is the sprouted clavicles an orchard of pleasure in verdance blazingly dim in the moon puddles writhing the muscles of implacable sensation. go to the tiny hall
and whisper
with Venus. she is grace and smooth and the sea muttering with the loose wind. fashioned from naked blood.