Fom the cadence of your breath hinges swing
with a friction on flesh against the skin
a wild-widow beast pulsing a night song
mounting an erratic moment in the mirror
opening petals of a flower that has no name
and the bed becomes the altar and the kindom
of hunger coming through the rye
arching your back into a brigde
as all roads lead to the bong
of crystal glass
until the sheets forget the language of teeth
and the moon collapses between your thighs
inhailing the opium in translation
a brokered psalm speaking in tongue
with a friction on flesh against the skin
All roads lead to the bong








