Seven Seas. Seven Days. Seven Heavens.

Seven Circles. This is how you put Witch

back in Twitch. Ghost of hymens and omens.

You’ve found 5 of my wantons with queer kitsch

magic: my nipples rise to meet your tongue.

Unrest under cottons, Underoos, pink’s

stink of sweat. Rich la Dolce Vita wrung

young … or not. Of my 7 Slits, my links

back to flesh, five have yet to be cut … but

you knew this, cutty snark. I wouldn’t trust

Das Blade to just anyone. Malice bounces –

Et tu, gluteus? – “In a butt made to strut;”

the first rhyme you ever taught me. You thrust

fast. I? Flesh bloomed; came in Seven Twitches.