Saturday, May 6

Avenue

It was my dream
to eat you
on the breakfast table

, not as a lover
but a subject

the table smeared in
wooden patterns
smudged by buttocks

teeth & a tongue
some lips ,a kiss.

I ate you for breakfast
down the white
avenue of yr thighs

the unfurled flower
& blooming hair—

kneeling for the
fortune of
your encouraging hand

the cold becomes warm
hip angle knee angle

as abrased my chin &
nose , the fill
of you wetting my throat.

we write good love songs
, breakfast table.

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