Death Is Her And Lactating

Death is her and lactating; against hot nights every day i see her to come, kissing me. Her breath grows freshest when the worm finds the way inside her teeth to lay with. She finds new ways to wear her old make up, as the milky eye lifts off the rose without. The earth shakes us out, lifts us up and down in clouds of dusty sin as bones infused are lodged. Worms repeat the cycle wading in for release filling some spot we kissed the moss grows hurry. The white dress and tan flesh mixed together sewn in cloth the bag, bloated and sweet as it floats across.