Howling #1

The moistened tip of your cerebral scar,
cat scan; embroidered neural network;
punch drunk cardiac arrest, fined. Find.

The slow, erotic curvature
of your cup of cappuccino
I grab it as I’d grab your breast
and cup it. Gently warming up
to its serenely swollen lumps of joy.

And stumbling over days and hours,
years and manifest destiny; I claim
you, my promised land. I devote
to you, three hundred and sixty nine
days of the year; four as a testament
that my love is true.

Death will deal one of us
a crippling blow; if we can
keep the flames of love burning
through the darkest, coldest days,
and to beckon the hour of our separation,
the winds reverberate my,

Howling.

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