Summertime
My lover ***** the blood of a rose
The thorns push in her, stab
Break off leave open
marks at the stem
Her back makes a decent ashtray
For tapping blunts and butts
My lover bites the throat of a world
Wrapped up in patchouli sheets
Made of daily applied fine mist
In a bottle or jar, still curiosity we
Still haven't seen her home but she's
Seen violent light spearing the thick
Smoke through and then the dreams
That pour out into our living room
Reflected from my lenses from the
Floor face down *** up