You are temperate
kisses on frost-chilled windows.
The fragrant evergreen and pine,
the delicate rasping of wine
against velvet throats. You are thicket-
carpeted tongue where settled
crumbs of honey-lathered toast,
burnt, crisp, crumbly, spongy,
unlike your walls. The changing of
locks, the changing of keys might
not be a good way to spend time;
they’re blind to sines, your shimmering
solar attic-roof, your gauntlet garden,
your haunted keep. You are beautiful in ways
most men can’t discern, be careful
who you let in, and in turn,
be careful who you let
return.
