Rive as I reach your core — primordial
fornication sprung from the dripping roots
of the world tree, cum and splinter. Vernal
equinox. “Toute la nuit.” Dusk fruit’s
marrow. I know something about stirring
the tree’s flurry. I, too, have been lovesick.
These scars are not from others. The slicing
of my flesh I do myself, just to pick
at scabs. Burn stumps. Lightning strikes. I despoiled
that gap, gouged out half my soul. A rough ride,
Oui, but it can be done. You want passion
and I want …? to sink into your roots: coiled,
packed, tight. All my metaphors leave you pried
loose, pulped with cinders, tattered, all riven.