Poem: Saturnalia

 

Saturnalia

 

funnel of aches,

grapple of the ripe swoon,

of the thigh,

 

drug of the horn,

of the gripped nape,

a chariot race of breasts 

arched and sheened

and shuddering to shove and tangle

half puppet, half wild.

 

whips of hot breath

merge a yank of canters,

swill goatskins of wine

 

to conduct the bump and blush

of the far-swayed fruit,

dark under the moon’s wolf,

 

while mouths merge and gorge,

escape-hungry,

hurtling to break through

 

the barrier of stars.

 

 

 

 

 

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5/12/25 ... removed a few words, changed prep  to streamline

4/15... changed a word