Poem #8

Burn Wise

Wood smoke cannot be contained,
though persuaded to linger
in the slope of your shoulder
then visited by the keen talent
of my pug nose. I want to consume
every bit of your clothes, mouth full
of moth balls, nibbling my way
down into your skin, where teeth
give way to lips; sweetness contained
by an ever-quick, viperish tongue
at last loosed and left to play on
the rollercoaster of your clavicle,
hoping to make you feel something
more substantial than the transience
of your brain burning so smoke heavy.

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