next year that galloping woman of horchata cinnabar of smoldering mesquite thornfields unspooling of knife's compress of blues staining my teeth violet of translucent theft of my lungs and other impediments of designs aging and hidden of sunwarmth green and green gold of my bladder whispering crystals into the ears of her hands of searing footprint on the zephyrs between scapulae of bleeding out happily under a melting mercury lamp of the last drops fueling my eyes' prayers to the dark star fulminating behind the garment of her skin of battery effortlessly jumpstarted after a decade wintering of armflesh neither hot nor cold but a secret personal dripping third thing of my hands crawling out of my hands folding up and pointing neatly toward her of a rusted chattering brittle steeltrap hexpatterned sublimating rune-cremated girl's body dragging itself between the grainy oaks and maples of ashen flickering shipwrecks demanding you have to let me into my canopic jar as simple accentuation of the dissymmetry of her pantry you have to let me simmer and thicken in her infrared lap you have to let me worship a second celestial pillar you have to scooch over on the loveseat of my needs and drape your arm across my shoulders you have to brush life's hair off my cheek so i can kiss me too