mouth quickly incredible tripping with youth meekly feels
moist, single, and crimsonly accelerates two bent velvet
lengths of lip, mouth, singly imports a kneading on my
short lanks of uncoloured. Dear,

                                                          who small, wan, paleness
                                                          of cheek is writ with the
                                              quiver
                                                          of
                                                                cupid's
                                                                               pricking,

                                                    treads
                                                               of thy nostril, lip, and ear silver
                                                               hangs a curving set of beads from
                                                               thy nose

                                                                                 and the back of your
                                                                            head
                                                                      is
                                                              nice
                                                     under
                                                 my
                                           hand
                                     pressed
                                  thickly
                                 into
                                 cotton
                                  and
                                    your
                                       back
                                         ,which,
                                            slithers
                                              and rolls
                                            says,
                                                      "hello, destroyer"

An ashen late Autumn was upon us,
and in our best worn coats and sundries we--
held steadfast by a masthead of a rotting boat.
Wooden on a shore of the lake we adored.

We held still as soft deer galloped their lanks through strange
lands lifted from grounds with brick built upon brick,
wherein now were filled, not berries, but hunter's saltlick.
We ravaged a place we called our own,
We stole from the savages their home.

But we found a peace amongst their nerves,
and we were fearful of speed and we'd swerve,
if ever we found in our path one that deserved,
to have the freedom to rummage through roughage.

On this solemn lake-side we found pride in the soft light.
Because what the **** else can we do,
but to sit where once grass stood in dew,
and instead of plucking and mucking about,
no, in lieu, we sat and stared and remarked,
instead about how we've done damage we can't undo.