How implausible, this metropole:
its foreign-sounding streets,
imported golden privet, feral parrot,
camellias broad and red, the blushing fanny
of another naked runner flashing past.
And us, how we hang together.
In the leathery palms, a couple of fruit bats
wearied by all the domesticated pears,
the orchards blanding the razed inland,
the hybrid gist upon the branches in the barrens.
Delicate-scented polis drew us into its syrup,
with its heady buds and plump upthrusting fare.
Come, let’s hunt for night’s banana flower.
Such are the words you put in my mouth. Like sport
& darkling wood. Feels good to have them there.
In part, because you put them there. In part,
because we share a purblind foray in an urban patch.
City of such heretofore unknown delights,
we’d rather pull its little legs apart.
The furry pink button I wrestle you for
splits underneath like the backside of briefs.
The anus has started bleeding and will not stop.
That’s one of six symptoms to worry about.
Symptoms of love? Perhaps.
Sometimes I tug you, too, with my happy teeth.
Sometimes, I forget to spit out all the seeds.