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


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