I love liquid beating drum. I love spurt
and jets of milk. I love closer, closer.
I love hot. I love acid bastards.
I love lithe blue. I love infernal blood.
“Darling,” you begin. “Picture me naked
before my typewriter searching for words
and the keys to put this down on paper.”
“Darling,” you begin. “There is still wet dirt
under my nails from the last time we met.”
I love how the sun lifts up the dill’s long
green stalk. I love how it gets its roots wet.
I love raw. I love how it’s never wrong.
I love breaking. I love swallow and spit.
I love more. I love knowing when to quit.
