Consent simmers like grass under your breath

ebullient as the crow in the morning who flees

pernicious battles, out of spite not fear, not

the high priests of compunction, prudently clad

in thick hides.


Tasted salt of the sea, salt of the earth,

glistening crystals turned to eyes that see and are seen,

allusions of dignified resistance heavy as lashes and wings

never spoil a contest (or is it conquest).

Assent is ascent. Ancient, acidic and steep. And sweet.

Like a pinprick with which winds tested my resolve,

when someone else was me. But no more

should you be ashamed of your vaingloriousness,

than I of kissing your neck, that flows like a balanced wine

in a rotund sacredness of glass.


Sighs are the coin now, no doubt.

Let us sigh the years to sleep.