My face turns up to avoid you,
the moon coming down in bricks
and you dosing our need to
oppose before we can attract.
A few seconds of walk towards me--
arms waving, the chumming begins.
With your hands you align my head
till the relic man is a halo,
and you step back to observe,
all resistance mimicry.
Now a pagan lith below a planet
my lips nibble craters where your eyes are,
sip from an old gully of moon water.
I sicken of ontology and wonder fever
till your nipples pierce my cornea
and brand my forebrain: ordo vigilante.
The language we use is not a virus,
only a primal task of assumption and hormone.
When my turn comes, I ask you to perform.
You revert to a Czar Nicholas daughter
tending her pea garden of captivity,
coloring the earth red with hair.
We are causation and I am reflex.
You ask me to genuflect. I spell no.
My finger then portions the air like Keeotah,
tracing for you between the stars
a new constellation of frog with lute.