Song Eleven

I’m rubbing down into

      the succulent cuts of days

Blooming almost 

      is banned and leaves

you dreambound    bitten by morning

on both grey sails

      peach face still

sweetening with forfeit

Come on to bay

in my arm’s buckle

We wet and wet

      your hands and ovation hair

             all this bravo before

      the peeling away

             onto winds

There’s a prettier name for it

that fleets with a fistful of dress

      A deep need for

wishes by your 

eyes’ smooth stars    gone dazzling

      already dissolved

Tendentially

The libidinal 

won’t hibernate

or warehouse loot

against months cold

And observes the law

pursuant   Say it 

roosts at the spine’s

patient thistle

paused on haunch

while the day dips 

like a saddle   Say it 

flaunts a fang 

or two so now

it’s dreaming you 

dead   Or likely at-

tempting a grimace