I want my cock against your throat, knife cut unto itself;
hand at ophidian flank of obsidian hair, cording noose;
palm on the hemline of your thigh, nail to arterial pulse--
to kneeling kiss and vivisect, tongue as scalpel to bruise.

I want my cock pressed to clit, lighter than thumb to eye;
fingers like shades in the sweat of Lethe, of Cocytus;
teeth as armies disinterred and risen ravenous and blind--
to incarnate war of orgiastic bloodlust and lost soul-love.

But you sleep, and the moon is half-lit with old wisdom;
you dream, and I dream your dreams are of rising oceans--
that you rebirth yourself in the dim slough of nonsense.

And in my mind you wake, as I study casts of fallen shadow;
you say not a thing, but unclasp your wings of marrow--
the room becomes a tree, and you a fruit unnameable.