Orbs of Panoply

(Heat tastes like...)

The sky scratching orbs

of

panoply - the deep

russet of flavor (as it

twirls, like) jupiter

slamming against my

statuesque riddles nesting

inside the shadow of

saturn - he doesn't

understand me - like

that's anything new, but

I'm so pale I often fold

into the walls like love-

letters (balling my fists,

like) a yelp - screaming so

loud that I have to cover

lips with fingers. (Strip) Stripling

I want to see all the virtues

that brush up against my hip

like sandpaper.

(Heat tastes like...) you, or

maybe me. A chicanery so visible

it could shatter the sky in one

lick (just to taste itself) the way

it sweats across the back of my neck

like freckles dripping from line

to mind - a virtual connect-the-dots

game from hell. (Pick a number and

paint me by it) roll me into the rules

like Cleopatra all folded up into rugs.

I'll let my eyes twinkle if you promise

to look long enough - to see. And (Heat

tastes like...) your safety mechanism, a

benignant defenestrate so calm that you

hit the ground running. (Heat tastes like...)

Melancholy; masked Marcasite; the flint, or

click of your tongue, the way my makeup

runs - the way we soak each other up like

sponges. The way I curl up with the hurt, and

the way you wallow near windowsills. Bad

poetry, or waking up and aching to knock

down all the walls, just to feel the rain (the

way I used to) again. (Heat tastes like...) the

punishment of wondering.