Her aroma
fans
and folds
into him.
His inequity
surfaces;
his death is
uncovered,
tries to
hide: broken limb.
Chin to skin
in shame;
forbids his
breath.
Her entrance
spritzes
permanence and
tunes
his ears to the
voice
of a grave,
shredding his
purpose into
less
than mince.
Her finished
scent
heightens
his crave.
Strong, but
strong,
she reeks of
water.
She’s
pollen’s smell
of death,
holding life
against him,
like
oil to an
otter.
His life
sits on belief
in the quick
whiff
of her
existence:
the vigorous
tiff.
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