miles of endless restlessness and hands tied
together with string
(like delicate handcuffs with a summer-orange scent)
hiding within fields of oxeye daisies where lips hold yearning like a mosquito’s bloodlust for a certain syrupy red wine that’s held in containers of flesh and bone
the proboscis breaks the surface like an
embroidery needle and the sting is sewn
to the skin like round buttons on soft cotton tops
as they drink from the holy bodies sunk deep in cool soil kissed by pious rays of lucent starlight
and we itch from an insect’s touch
and a lover’s kiss