All that is cupped. All that is pumped, gushing,

from the faucet — across your open palm.

Scant damp lacquer. Love enough dribbling

drown my lip in honey-soaked, big-bone mom

folds. Tongue of needle. Mire of mollusk. Bog

rich. Rime and lilies but not hoar frost. Glee

burgling between thighs. Glee like sweat. My dog

debt to you. “Nothing but the dog in me.”

Stop. “Crone zone”? No. But clit lit leaves a stain.

Disco’s bane? P-funk’s kismet. How whet works

across your plump lump. Let the ease of sleaze

leave your sighs split, thighs jelly. Leave my brain

broken? Your stoned crone boned. Where bedlam lurks?

From the pump. Across the palm? Gushing. Please.