I am heaviness thinking of you.
It costs me. I exhaust all variations on your theme.

Perhaps I unbutton your blouse,
and take a mellow bite from your mouth.

We toss aside comportment and composure.
I rip off my saddle to cover you.

We pause. Velvet night surrounds;
we look but remain without understanding.

At dawn I will cook between 
every flame appearing—burning glints

surging thorns in the clarity 
of your chocolate eyes.

And you shatter my teeth with a kick, saying,
No. This isn’t love. I’m every woman alive to you.

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