Dropped like a rope of pearls
     into the jewel-box
     of my arms, erupting
     voluptuaries fold
     whispered urgency’s storms
     through chokeholds of cheap talk,

     veiled lips of which fists talk,
     kisses knocking walls storms
     of kicks stitch up, each fold
     of time stroking hours pearls
     flood, his hands erupting
     threads of love when we box.

Shells shot once shucked, hell’s box
     shouts fire when erupting,
     pours libations of pearls
     to dry (h)earth(s) words spark, talk
     of touch tighter than folds
     of arms toughened by storms,

     kindles to embrace storms
     of phrase flaming our fold
     to knifed page, ink that talks
     of tearing wide thighs box
     upon box of sp(l)it pearls
     cannot stop erupting.

To him with erupting
     heart and curling toes, pearls
     wizen the blow my box
     of poorly-matched beaux storms
     to impart, ghosts whose talk
     implodes to smoke each fold

     of time overlooked, folds
     of losing hands (t)his talk
     of winning him shreds, storms
     carding wool erupting
     what wolven bark fangs box
     in jaws swallowing pearls—

                    and diving for those pearls,
                    I find in erupting
                    shoals a waif whose mouth storms.