The pressed grape and the thorn withering in the tongue,
Muscadine—the frank applause of your thigh against mine.

Who’s insane and who’s merely a Halloween mask worn
On Valentine’s Day, a face made to walk the wind of a lake twice—

Once for the lake and once for the small hands who lost you
There a few hours ago, the spears of spring in your throat?

I’ve become too attached to quivering, desculpé le bateau,
The shoe knocking against your hull is nothing like a heart

Or a wolf at the edge of winter and hunger. My mouth
Knocking against your mouth is nothing more than a tugboat

Dressed in ravens, black skimming black, hole for hole—
a lake of disaster we drag for more disaster.