Sweet demoness
I sensed the slaughter
Coming on like the musk of an August moon
Pleading clover
Stalks of blood perfume
My
Honed desire designed to consume
Tentative yet true in yearning
Held
Bright swelling in the summer breeze
And cinders clinging to my skirts
Your
Seeds knew not the turn of morn
Were jilted in the wombs of their catkins
The fields laid down to murmurs of harts
As
The blossoming flower devoured
’Twas my egg that captured and endured
The bloom of the turning season
’Twas my egg that sought and ensnared
Fecund and longing
To in-furl you
Encase you
Drain you
And dissolve you
