Cold-Heartists and Rabbitoirs

Steeled by your kiss, your lips cut and this
ordeal’s whispering burns;
your fists—with just enough grip—my hips,
as our struggle concerns
itself with our undoing. Two in
hand and one in the bush,
you, with your globes—those eyeballs blueing
themselves—rush, caress, push,
and with wilting winks, revive from death
my breath’s faded blessing.
From the plateau recovered, no less,
by your charm enmeshing
the frock of my flesh, ’heard you calling
so softly—lips hotly
pressed—I pranced to (s)laughter to fall in
water boiling what we
thought our sinning could cleanse. In the end,
hunters (s)lay with their prayers
where cold-heartists and rabbitoirs wend—
a forest sp(l)itting (t)heirs.