May

In May’s gaud gown and ruby reckoning the old saw wind repeats a colder thing. Says, you are the bluest body I ever seen. Says, dance that skeletal startle the way I might. Radius, ulna, a catalogue of flex. What do you think you’re grabbing with those gray hands? What do you think you’re hunting, cat-mouth creeling in the mouseless dawn? Pink as meat in the butcher’s tender grip, white as the opal of a thigh you smut the lie on. In May’s red ruse and smattered ravishings you one, you two, you three your cruder schemes, you blanch black lurk and blood the pallid bone and hum scald need where the body says I am and the rose sighs Touch me, I am dying in the pleatpetal purring of mouthweathered May.