Muscular Wrist

condensation 
 on our small windows

 my thumbs (on you are)
 sudden    sugared      syrup

these breasts weird as witches

steamed bra, 
         old contraption 
                   of leather and spit
how you smell of the saints 
                                   and their mistakes
how you reek of injustice 
                     against singing insects

 nipples sting like bedbugs
 like the dark eyes of drowned angels

silver skin, feathered with the hair
   of pale cows, 
 coated with sweat
  like weasel piss and milk

   your toes architectural
little firm boxes, all in a row,
 each a perfect snail shell

each 
 the size 
 of a coin 
in my mouth

O I could die from you