what is this thick foliage,
this undergrowth of dim utterances
where light flickers constantly,
and why are the candles sputtering so suddenly?

and why are you the only person here?
you of the dark jaw,
you of the somber skin.
you have the face of a catholic.
the circles of your eyes gone black
like bruised fruit.

(I'd like to think there's more
to this relationship than your teeth sinking into
the sumptuous rind of my skull,
steaming blood spilling forth,
erupting like lava, sexual as nectar)

you've got to be more than
a pile of bones.
you've got to be more than
the trap that ensnares,
a web spinner,
holding me down with the thin
gossamer net of words.
yet here you are,
spindly fingers churning
faster as i run.
it's no surprise we've still
placed ourselves at the center
of this bicentennial destruction,
this game of catch the fly,
this game of truth/dare.

in the small space of this
small chamber, there is only enough
elbowroom for you to consume me, completely.
like an all encompassing flame.
and it's too late to bite back.
i am the burning bush
subject to each loving whim,
every simple stroke,
the ending bits of your solo act
as i rise like smoke.