Sublimate

and the woman

is wolf,

and toads

are grime,

and you

or I

only wade—

sublimate,

her vibratory

fingertips

strumming

vienna's strained dusk

tasting the dew

at command

porcelain cracks

filled with rubber cement

cry for honey

instead

how long have I been

here, wandering

when it should be spring?

are you the only one,

the only pack

that still roams these

hills?

the twigs

are dry—

the fire burns

but is quenched too quick

too much time spent

gazing at the untouched

candlestick sheen

too little lighting matches

but who's to blame?

Strike your quick light

little green tipped kitchen match

when they say

and not a moment before

or your lips

(they scream)

will gorge too decadent