Poppy milk: in ill sleep you stood there: curved,
blithesome, cocky. To see you naked, once
more, I almost woke. You were so reserved
alive, it took laying down lip, essence
of moon rock, just to get you off. My brief
grief stayed, lasted — even as I tended
your grave. No one shall tend to mine. The Thief
of Seoul shares my bed now; but sugar-mud
isn’t the same, even among gods. For ache,
omen close to bliss, I keep hunting. “Hunt?
You mean cunt, you mean cock,” you said. I mean:
fear some dreams. I mean: from lust’s lure heartache.
Your night fever tightens around me. Blunt
ghost, you’re all nightmare, my milk’s morphine.