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In bloom. In bed. What is it that brogue brings
to you? Listen, can you hear distant moans?

Gods talk. When the air thickens and then swings
around you, when you feel deep in your bones

a wild itch for something more, that’s language,
love, each curious word. If it were fruit

you’d suck them dry, lick at the wet cleavage
juicy sounds make, each temblor’s bloom. What root

buried itself here? What sublime ache? Bloom,
baby, bloom: disco inferno. Now rogue

gods talk through you; their lexicon unique,
chaotic, but still you know. You know. Womb

words. You speak them. In bed. In your rough brogue.
You’re the translation, love –– what the gods speak.