Lions, Tigers, and Dragons oh my
He is apparition-like,
red-haired wolf, both clever and
agile, slight limp, cowboy-booted,
thick stubble, plump lip ghoul
sleeping soundly on the opposite side
of the bed,

he has my body in his hand, pulling
legs down, pressing the hard thickness
of himself into the center portion
where I part elegantly like an older woman,

I know not
that I know better, I know
nothing with his mouth on mine,

swallows all my words, savors my poems,
the bones of my words succulent between
his straight-teeth,

the devil is in the dark;
my bedroom light lingering
on my forehead bent downward
like a sling across your chest, the
hotel room quiet but for the TV
left on low all night as the sky
burst into a haunting burnt-olive
color turning the dirty-milk hue
of the smokestacks ghostly and

when he was younger he set himself on
fire and spoke in secrets and codes, his
confessions coffin-like and coarse, laying
myself upon a bed of splinters and nails,

I jostled your belt free, slid you jeans
down to the ankles and bent down over
you while our indecent inactivity was
boiled down to a bitter broth and we
pulled the curtains closed on the day,
drove the streets alone like specters,
following the breadcrumb line of
eerie green traffic lights,

the music was loud,
we did not speak,
but poems began to write themselves
in the back of my throat, I did not
know their exoskeletons upon first
glance but they were already free-flowing
through my hot-headed veins,

when his mouth yawned away from me
I started to speak again.