Stomaching a breeze of breathing,
barricades intact, I make a pact
with the puncture wounds
adorning the night.
Tight fisted sisters, wailing wisps,
a lisp for your yearning
to do with as you deem fit.
The comeuppance we sought
turned up three weeks late
in a wicker basket, writhing.
The writing on your eyelids
melted into mesmeric goo.
As I cope with hope
and shoes full of mush,
your lush and lusty gaze
breaks my brain in two.
-r. miller
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