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sweet, sweet, open wound kiss
for us lucky, rocky beings
left forth without food or water.

I send you stamped approval
for your thighs against the illusion
that is New York
or somewhere far from
Midwest autumn ambiance.

What's left of you I shall
lick and take like a dagger
with shredded skin
perhaps strung between two nimble teeth.

A sap, a morning dew
remains under the guzzle
of gravel and grizzle
which master momentarily
while I spread and stretch
for you.

I speak for you,
dear illusion of an ocean rise.
I put together a natural binary for you.
what's left is no fortune told,
instead, me and cut toenails.

Where are you?
I call, I call, I seep
wildly under rainy ducts
and ravish with a hollow chest
while you tremble.

I wait for your back arch
to rise
from quiet slumber.