decanting my harangue for her
we swap movements and
feed each other a few
new things every night.
A few flicks, throughout the
lack of light, clues that will emerge
from the fossilised sheets that
survive the years of evening.
Etched with wretched pleasure,
our outline will continue on.
I do not think a paleontologist
could exactly figure out the
facts, and this releases me from
following the normal way to
interact with her.
We wallow in the palest light,
both paler, and I talk to her
with my mouth full of more things
to say, absolutely clogged with
soft clay, and

I am baying at the sun for a change,
obeying, deranged;

but winking at the moon, unafraid.
Thinking of how I soon strayed,

and will again.


Title not intended to be offensive, comments appreciated :)