Rise as the nightly scourge of a sanguine
people—Illusive as a ghostly stroke
across one’s cheek. Not a spring-heeled villain;
be that other sort of pestilence—smoke
smitten, unfettered, the Azalea Crypt
of quick caresses that makes flesh quiver.
I think of the moon bent; how cum once dripped
from your smile. A conked smile that grows fainter
in my mind as all memories grow faint
when you’re no longer haunted by a bent
figure pressed to the window. I know why
you’re gone. A scourge would need to be a saint
to slake my passions. For nightmares hellbent
on wet dreams I am where they go to die.