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On Contact Opens Its Indigo Pit

From your mouth, from the well of your eyes I drink, from your belly, at your flanks;
between my hands they burn, moisten
(the fervor emulsifies at the margins,
texture gathers the tense pulsing of this skin, closes its smooth sphincter,
until the sum voids,
the pain). This stroked song, licked to the limit.
The barest coolness of your tongue.
I contract (from your lips, in my hips, they expand-- slivered ice--
pointed, sharp) into the pang.
Tipped toward intensity, contour, tightness howling at touch, my sex:
flame polished in its concavity, anointed; a succinct hollow, intensive,
turned to its concentrated cadence, to its devoted desert;

From your mouth, from your overflowing shadows, I drink, from your crotches, your palms.
The burning between my thighs condenses-- a twitching, slow fever--
your magnetism; between my lips. Quiet ivy, resin, lit
liquid, silica, my moistness, melts and conjugates: plexus,
briney warmth, sensitive pulp, pressing, this penetrable tympan,
this knot, this vulval excess. I'm seeking

the sure volume that unsettles me. The tensity, the unquenched heat,
stuffed in, overwhelming me, freeing me with its friction.

I would integrate your sex (retreating lava, coast, to envelope it,
          a lake going dense to the capillary
rhythm of its thirst), its slow, apprehensible abundance, its solidity,
at my limits; vineyard
pressed to the pulse, swallowed by the vortex; seething peak, fulgarent
(I lick your candescent thickness; I pour out) on contact, opens its indigo pit, wets.
The veins, the private illuminations, the strains
          (your thighs sink into my thighs;
          your kiss tears away)
of a new caress; the juice;