A pair of small brown hills wrapped in skin,

growing fat with the beauty of fire.

Your tongue circles my danger

like some cat out of Persia

stealthing  around two chained dobermans.

Our pleasure strokes the air

until it hisses white

and forms an island made of chanting steam.

Every tear that drops from my heart

makes your tongue hungry for another.

I watch the sticky candy our shadows make,

up there, on the ceiling,

and feel ashamed because I feel no shame. 

Fury sweeter than grapes purple on their vine

takes over our singular heat.

Like thunder drunk and heavy upon the soft-furred mountain.

It doesn’t matter if my eyes are closed or open.

I have been lost this blind and this deep inside of you for days.

Spinning around and turning over. Turning over

and spinning around. Begging louder and louder for more.

Aberjhani

(from Visions of a Skylark Dressed in Black)