A Vision Broken in the Field (To Bring It to the Reapers)


Bred for the taste, cakes dripping with
ivoried kisses by whispers
tickled oyster-slick, fingers take
onto tongues another’s winter.

Drops of snow offered devour pink
this whole his lovers each think is
theirs alone, some thing to fill, teeth
of keys boned open for liquors.

Fed until mouths filled full of its
marbled elixir, bent or rolled
over, his role’s reversal tilts
enactors aching to forsake

          those morés imposed by myth
          of saviour, savour this opaque.


A vision broken in the field,
to bring it to the reapers he
feels might otherwise steal these nights
of his, this body, he sells for

those rawest deals, that cavernous
den where lawlessness dwells when seeds,
after spilled by them, they service
to surface. What within bursts forth

to their chagrin, perhaps, he leaks
as words, bled by prophets, tease of
apocalypses. On bent knees
releases from men this ignites

          what, transacted in secret, speaks
          freedoms his beaten cheeks invite.