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.
