People are disappointingly human under the clothes they wear, but in
here, my sweet fickle angel, tricked by the side-casting moonlight
your shoulders turn to feathers rising through the indoor air. This
milky light, like latex leaking from opium fruit, pours across your face,
marks your pale chest. The arch of your instep, the hollows on either
side of your taut ass, the angle at which your arms meet elbows
are now just part man. Your locks, sweaty and smelling of metal, toss
and flash like moonhandled fish plunging through rapids.
Inexcusable, really, the voltage in the mud-spatter of your eyes as you
dive down, away from reason, ram into the barren valley of my bones.