Quenched yet parched. Cold had heated its perfume
so that my cat screamed. The haunt appeared clad

in hot winds. Juicy bones in my bedroom.
“You’re bad for wanting me to do this!” Bad?

Sulfur was in its smooches. Negligee
from a Sears catalog. You don’t know bad,

waif love. This time of year my runaway
blows mean loss and more loss. All this nomad

flesh means never enough. I’m the mortal
that the dead warned you of. Divas of notched

sable fur ask: what’s so bad about carnal?
New Year’s first day: debauched debauched debauched.

Haunt, I love you so. First make an obscene
sucking noise, then I suck all your bones clean.