According to one measure,
half the humans who ever
lived are dead due to your
murmurings, your little horror movie.
So why then do I feel kissed to
freshness by you, omnivorous &
particular, loving monkeys,
listening for the thunder
of the wild caribou herd?
I understand perfectly
you preferring my lover’s throat,
her O-negative, drinking her sticky
blood as your eggs like
moons bulge & grow.
Tell me what was it like to
land on a triceratops
horn, to drink blood from the
endless throat of a brachiosaur.
Summer song,
virus with wings, teach me to
probe for the pulse, to
plunge once more through
the false surface of things.
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