Reach for a thimble, a third
icon obviating all the striations
of preciousness upon the velvet
of your voice, the gesture of slowness
a roll of simultaneous pleasure
and nurture of the hazelnut.
Pallor isn't always tremendous,
a lack or splitting of unconsciousness
as the home you winter in, spread
at all the stimulants of flight,
shameless in the blow of night
or jacketed cheaply; you're vulnerable
to a title's allure, blonde rope
as the gateway, chastise me, elope
should predictions admit us
that wild extremity of joy
charging the world, raptured
confluence leading my release;
your strange embrace of stranger peace.