Let's make our skin paper, write with fingertip and tongue the dirtiest poems we can imagine: a sonnet scribbled with sweat and breath, blank verse that tumbles us, clear and wet, to a flash where all flesh bends to curves and all curves bend to flesh. Let's make myths of the smells that pump from armpit, neck, and thigh, find a simile -- like lightning -- to describe how our bones seem to blaze, how our spines feel suddenly plugged straight into the Divine. Let's rhyme, over and over, the slap of skin with our small moans, slam ourselves dizzy as our love-songs spin over comforter and pillow, each gasp a nonce that prestos out a new name for pleasure. Thrust after thrust, our onomatopoeias define the plunge, the sizzle sting, as we ride deep to caesura, a bee flown honey-deep in a lavender flower.
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