Cyclones and bones blown all pell-mell. Sky-bound,
umber dust lifts your heavy skirts — debauched
with rage, rushed with umbrage, with the crude sound
of storm of sex of my tongue in your notched
plash first gush and then whirl. The earth’s domain,
red gold, laid bare. Mixed with ache aren’t we all
peeled down. On the side of a side road. Rain
on the car’s hood. In the backseat I sprawl
inside you, slouching in your cunt-soaked heat.
Curved thighs crisscross my neck. Conjured hormones
from ghost meat and bones blown high from their graves.
The wind brings us red rock, ozone, heartbeat,
rage. Your clit trembles. It’s what the storm moans,
the gods hunger for, what the cyclone craves.