In the embrace of thunder's arms

I slept, suckling fury, ignorant

of the lightning's lucent violence.

I write to the wind

my stories, she twists them about

her legs, serpents rising into her darkness.

Falling into the black song of the earth

there is no silence, the churning blood

and bone an embryonic chorus ripe

in the fertility of death. A kiss crawling

into my mouth, a new tongue to taste

this anatomy of debauchery

.