The burdening serpentine, voluptuous as the cradle’s scent,

Moves like a cemetery, devouring the lightness

And it must be.

A glass augur navigates love, a fog horn hermaphrodite

Touching the abyss with maps for lovers

And anchors like heroin,

 But must it be? She the feather and he the bird, dancing

On archaeology, binging on caresses

Wistful of a sound escape

From the eternal palindrome, suffocating in the resurrected

Sands that blind us with their weight

And bruise us when we lack to affect.

She leaves her shoes behind

And yes,

It must be; no witching hour, no exit, no being except to be.