Moving through mountains, never moving them.
Waking nose bleeds but red shade is my own and
nothing’s better than conquered life covered in blood
when lovers grow only aged sugar on tongues
and extend rotten fruit on collapsing branches.
I still don’t want tattoos, only half a grapefruit with your
salt white teeth as pearls sunken into southwest horizon.
Incidents of sun demand day drinking life from suns from palms.
And bodies demand deep shadows but good light for
seeing the good in fingers licked after time is killed.
Sugars to tongues, wet rot congregates to drooling prayers.
Droplets escape, splatter falls to her calf.
Someone should lick it all before sugar sinks
to desert roots and nothing good grows from blood.