Insecticide #7

An echo;
a molestation sound.

And down,
on the ground,
lies a fig.

Trans-opt python-vortex,
once, when we– when I
was young, before trees had horns
and they bore the fruit of Cadillacs
and Jaguars and Mustangs
all convertibles and an obtuse
rendering of Ba’al; and the headless horseman.

Drink,
love in excess,
pluck desire’s
ripened fruit
and eat.

In the morning,
when you are satiated,
and I am outside in the cold
breathing hot air into cold hands,

I will drop
everything
at once
if you
would say,
“I do.”

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