i lace your lips with
mistletoe and kiss
you all beneath it.
i laud you with
drunkoffpavement pecks
and scratch chalk marks
in the pattern of
Victorian lace all
across your back.

i lift myself on
pine wings and
talk myself cata
strophic as i dip
my fingers in your
honeyed addiction;
it tastes like cina-no
pepp-no a rainbow
and once you're safe
ly tucked inside my
cheek, i whisper "
baby, you make me