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 steel 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