Black caps
ruby through obsidian
unripe sparks in the green,
I glimpse you -- your inflamed
hearts, tangled in their summer
tack. Behold, my bold bright
beauties sleeping, your beloved
bridegroom comes through
the thicket. To my lips
I press you with the pink
caps of my fingers, dappled
purple and pierced by your
displeasure. Gracelessness
has cost me, but my arms,
laced with the raised red thread
your thorns inlaid, will carry
you over the threshold
of my teeth. This tongue
where you have lain,
and stained, shall sing
your aubades even when
your taste has faded, for I forage with
the haste that others throw away
in prayer -- to saints aglow
in gilded alcoves and
in their backseat or motel-room affairs.
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