This was the discovery of fire: when I,
for the sake of Art, held out that plump round fruit
and you snapped a bite with those perfect white teeth,
juice seeping from the corners of your lips. So red,
that we had to invent new words for it (oxblood, scarlet,
red of the screaming center of the hurricane rose)
and I took one slender finger to trace the droplets
around your skin. I predicted Pollock. I felt creation
rise in me like the lightning that comes in the evening,
dripped it down your naked chest, following hair-trails,
musculature, hipbone: that was what we found when
we took the lightning in both hands. It smoldered into
twin desires, twisted into the ladder of our DNA:
skin sliding over skin, the thirst for sweat and friction,
and color corrupting color, a need to re-create things
in our image. Arrangement of forms animates me. I am
one long paintbrush: the fruit bleeding knowledge
is my choice of expression trickling down your belly:
and if you'll permit, I'll call your skin my canvas,
making it up as I go along, letting myself burn from the
inside out, killing so many birds with one cometary stone.
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