Coral Bracho

I love you from the sharp tang of the fermentation; in the blissful pulp. Newborn insects, blue. In the unsullied juice, glazed and ductile. Cry that distills the light: through the fissures in fruit trees; under mossy water clinging to the shadows. The papillae, the grottos. In herbaceous dyes, instilled. From the flustered touch. Luster oozing, bittersweet: of feracious pleasures, of play splayed in pulses. Hinge (Wrapped in the night's aura, in violaceous clamor, refined, the boy, with the softened root of his tongue expectant, touches, with that smooth, unsustainable, lubricity—sensitive lily folding into the rocks if it senses the stigma, the ardor of light—the substance, the arris fine and vibrant—in its ecstatic petal, distended—[jewel pulsing half-open; teats], the acid juice bland [ice], the salt marsh, the delicate sap [Kabbalah], the nectar of the firefly.)