Pieces of you cross into me
as if my heart were a ramp.
We are a perfect match,
but reality is much less patient.
The drone of your mighty phallus
chop, chop, chop silences
my obsessional refrains.
I believe only in the things
I can feel, what I see invariably ceases.
Seeing is finite, unreliable
only the soul can comprehend universals.
Only the stars can reunite my subsidiaries.
Your willing, efficacious fires
hike up my skirt, lick my intimacies
free all my puritanical misgivings.
The bucking of your hips,
of your maniacal grin stuffing itself
with clouds and beastly man-made apothegms.
You have a law for every occasion,
I watch you splitting silk
with infectious approval.
I want to taste the bay as it congeals
like a clot, fissures bated and gorged.