Hungry Him
He disturbs the bed
super-imposing crumpled sheets
like a mistake left
on a page, proof
of impatience
with a hunger for lead
or an artist’s tongue
to draw a line, on hips
virile brackets to exist
within he’ll pour himself
to the brim, then paint heavenly
frescos on your heavy eyelids
that tell lies so beguiling
like a dead man’s iris
blooming a moon
that rises like bone
to break the skin
of oblivious night
and when you shout in thanks
like a war-time surrender
he’ll fill you up to drown you out