Your electric moon breast

My black-trunked, gold-leaf slip

Fall into flux

Dissipate like white plumes

You’re especially wild

With a strange malaise for more
Metallic aches, we moor

Ourselves to a daisy, sit two abreast:

Brush strokes of willed

Grass in the distance, our slippery

Perspex brain plumb

At the centre of—ah!—fucks
Your hand pulls my bones out, a fluke

And the birds arch into morrow

Bright as the stain of blood plums

Chime in the beast

Crossing the freeway’s rose-pink lips

Roadkill wiled
Away the day: IT was another word for wild

Or another word for luxe

Discussing Freudian slips

With our mouths unmoored

Leave the port at Brest

Land’s edge gone dim, plumb
The rimbaldien sugar plum

Face the world

As he did, titless at best—

Ears and lip, flower of a heart, fleck

Of skin, gimme more!—

No cheat, strip
Our messy embrace, spilt

Air we’ll never plumb

The lash of each other, always more

Clouds, bodies, worlds

To clash like waves and fluke

TRANSMUTATION, a Grand work of breasts
Turned back toward Brest we slip

Up, boat set on flux, plumbing

The wild, nothing more