Well of Soles

You let me sound your throat’s depth with my toes,
     swallowing my foot to prove how far you
     go to get comfort, telling your lovers
     to let loose, to let you kiss us where you
     want, to get comfortable with sweat, lips
     wetting pinkest tips of agile pens in
     cauldron kettle clouds of fragile bubbles
     of spit you send up, promising pink holes
     and dicks your adept lick, swearing that this
     will only get as vulgar we let it,
     if only I would become one of them,
     of the many men you inhabit, their
     memories of those first dates your mouth made
     irreplaceable, breath replayed in an
     instant and constantly, exes whistling
     contrition as your parting pours into
     perspective just how abrupt it was your
     poorest, unfortunate, unrequited
     captives have been freed, leaked like secrets you
     had let go, how the temperature of
     that clime lures their minds from sober ice, their
     need fast back to you, and so, in time for
     another matinée, I delight in
     an afternoon on your floor, my worn soles
     eager for your tongue, its condensation
     washing from them all condemnation, its
     lush warmth leaving me wondering what cost
     comprises the toll for walking on its
     reddest coals, my taste for this fetish flame
     growing, my haste fogging up the mirror
     of your eyes, blinding sighs rolling over
     them, but ones which cannot blur the burning
     self-satisfaction of their glowing or
     your smirk, lying here as I am, knowing
     full well they will all be throwing their bows
     after this raises their brows, after this
     comes out, and to what circle of Hell my
     soul will be damned, sent for loving a man
     and fucking up abraham’s covenant.