dripping sweat into the crescent

i. bastet leered when you sanded the dog-star

the dynastic womb of your drooping limestone desire
had prickled the chipped tomb of my pharaonic intent
when the crescent dove flooded the canine drawl at dawn:

you can't be serious.

grrrr.

how many lascivious cones does it take to mold a croissant dominant,
patiently, into a steamy delta buttered by kohl black nightfall,
an empire once mummified in a chronic loss of apocryphal noses
hidden inside the starry rolls and ermine wraps of buttery resolution?

welcome, once again, to the boredom of eternity:

where the fuck is my cat?

ii. the secret ministry of frost is the first misdemeanor

you were caught by the generous green boughs of hemlock,
before the sacred teas had browned your crispy veins,
before you slept, awhile, in the scratchy embrace of velvet fingers-

misdemeanor the second:

before high-piled books, in charactery-

misdemeanor the third:

the lone and level sands stretch far away.

call me serial:

oops, I did it again,
but badly and out of time.

isn't it romantic?

iii. not a moment is ever wasted

always, but only in memory must we return
to the moments when the sleek quenching rain
abundantly splashed your freckled face and
unexpectedly gleamed the shimmery grain of alder beams
in that secret orange loft under the gauzy sun of winter
where bits of dessicated hay anointed drooping marigolds-

it was the day your eyes rolled, timelessly,
into the whiteness of tomorrow.

it was the day we died in parallel,
like all great lovers do:

what a pity to be born again.