Affectionate and shapely fingers, forking fast but sometimes falling feline,

half asleep,

make ten places, cold and white, come to state and then reverberate,

a peaking zephyr with plaiting hands,

friends with the dark pools of fish and kings,

kelp beards and pearl girls,

trident chords,

heavenly.

Oh go, supple pounce! Into the finger cut - the mighty cradle of teeth, and cantillate;

stirring up the sounds in a soup of hoof and gale, the whistling wing of a bird shot,

and the heap of a lover’s love of love,

and make a fallen shoulder of me in the wake of your mouth’s width;

the  hit, hit, hit

of

the tight rope holding

me so

on this precipice;

the sharp angle,

flattening my breath with wild sounds

and pressed black flowers.