markbousfield

In the tangled thatch of nakedness
our thorns collide,
reprise,

each succinct rhythm of lotus and locust,
every sweet breathy kiss caught in the vibration of their wings,
the angels I mean,
not the crows on a wire outside my window,
calling and crawing to the emptiness.

Blood soaked cotton wool,
my last memory of you,
in your vulnerable glory,
in your feathers chased by the dark,

Fingernails of cruelty,
of dust and scratching,
of honey frights and altruistic lullabies
essaying the netherworld,
distinct in perversity,
young blood spilt in pleasure,
in leisure,
in birth,
incognito,
their masks,
their robes,
all too real,
all too easy,
all too true.