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.