skin frosted to the touch,

open window, the click of the blind pull

against the panelling, caught in the breeze

like my breath rising to you.

in wonderment not awe

more like a question begged from the hearth

gone cold from flame, the smell

like an asteroid numbered a century ago

because someone just made a rock.

touch me to become the forest,

for water cannot be added after for effect

like sweat cannot be an addition to sex -

you are either invested,

or you like to be pretty.

"she's shaved". no: i was kept clipped.

there is a difference -

and divorce papers serve as a balm

in gilead for the tosser

of mown lawns.

"if he dies: he dies" is all well and good

until you fuck a dead fish.

i would rather hump the floor.

ⴲ.