Sonnet 1

A bulb of sweet flesh and nectar and nerves
is flicked on and on and prodded by hands
slick with a private loss along its curves
of digits that had plunged and sought lands
beneath the mound and beyond precious grass
and on to lips undiscovered and warm.
The tongue declines and fingers slide pass
the masses that tingles and senses alarm
of nerves and thoughts, shocked and soaked in Self
that throbs by lips and pulses beneath breath
hot and dripping up to the body’s shelf
where therein lies the peak of little deaths,
that trickle past tongues and set ablaze lips
that dance on lips and hovers past that tip.

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