I come to a bulwark
of quiet flesh, beating
to a hum of worldly
duress.  And cling, bare-handed,
to stiff ledges, bone tablets as steps.
And look upon irradiated, insular eyes,
bathing blue-bleached  irises
in wasteful drowned drops,
and find light-toothed ducts
emitting serrated levitations
of a tender sort of might.

There are women who stride
along on spherical streets,
and men who talk
to a range of idle watchers
and lonely listeners in a
dreamlike commotion
beyond.

Spurred whistles flow through
lunar clipped doors, and curtains are
drawn closely to naked blades
and are grafted as reborn skin
and contort into a breathless maze.

And the blaze blows wispy ash plumes
that tremble down my legs.
And scald the rest, my bare, bare form, pressed
inward, into another,

into fast entwining, shaking hips.

To tongue-bound kisses from red tile lips.