This ripe fruit—elasticity;
plastic neuropathways, a mantra
dissolving self in pleasure. My desire
revolves about you in a rhyming sutra
as wide as morning light. My mouth opens
to give a word for it; in my hands:
the milk of thighs, a broad world thought
without a mind. O you! please give me death
in you, confused and senseless in the text
resembling a rich, crimson curtain.
My nose is a narrative and a gaze
traversing her skin—O make me not
a word, a name, a body or a self;
delude me in the leisure of our union.
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