Petals are swarming in my mouth,
I’m savoring an angry swarm of spring
I breathed today to blow against your thigh.
There’s heat left for such games.
Soon warmth will be more vital
Than ritual or color.
The smell of squirming in a room with hard-wood
floors is not for me to tell, but I’ll confide
I doze well in the musk of glistening oak.
And same on gold, it’s nice to rest without a scent.
Soon I may leave my senses malting
Somewhere moist - beneath a rock.
But I’m holding out to hear you eat a grape. Those clarinets
Of spurting juice will marshal me. Oh my,
We haven’t shared a fruit down to the core,
And it’s getting cold. That’s fine, everything
Now is ripe all the time. Here I finish
With a sneezing orange peel in winter.