Scent me do, the tang of moon,
Sippin’ ol’ mango…
Melancholy, thick and slow,
With nectar from your tongue.
The fragrance of your grotesque,
A ghost in the marrow,
Hanging heavy in the loom,
To carry me over the moss.
With a taste of pit stones,
Pooling the dusk of twilight,
And your pale unblinking eyes,
As you minuet the bassoon.
Holding on to fruit of your bones,
In the deep hollow of earthen wood,
Sipping ol’ mango…
Melancholy thick and slow.










