i hold to the memory of
bare sweetness, enough
 
to make the sinews ache:
a tuft of fur, a crack
 
of laughter, on and on
against tall ceilings; the
 
pleasant gaps where
rouge sunlight drops and
 
catches in a humid
breeze. where the teeth
 
fold over sweet flesh,
too full to let out
 
old groans. the sweetness
evens the scale. often, the
 
chest chatters more than
aching teeth.