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 the yanking canters,

swill goatskins of wine,

 

and they conduct the bump and blush

of far-swayed fruit,

dark under the moon’s wolf,

 

while mouths merge and gorge,

escape-hungry,

hurtling to break through

 

the limitations of stars.

 

 

 

 

 

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