them be butterflies in the pastry
bedazzling the icing on the nape of your neck
and reeling me in
to the spire of your spine
with my lips, joyful and apart..
my crude lust, elegantly fawning
in the ripples of your wet ***
and narrowly avoiding'
a premature
Truth.

them be the kettles and the brine
yammering on about the pots and molasses.
the freak honey in the rock
of our solid moons -
as we recover from the act and act the part
of our chief deception
after the glow dissolves
and the *****
seltzers.

we awaken to the tossed sheets and the bare naked.