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I know when he began to dance with me

cranberries started to burn in pocket—

I smelled red smoke of sugar under my

feet, sugarfoot, a boy worth burning for—


and into his pants I’d push my white hands,

deeper into the sweeter red currant

in a darkened cell until he was done;

then into a lit cell, where I was king


if music played we sat down fast, out, down

into the red fruit mashed in my lap like

Turkey. Musical chairs with the pilgrims

who came here on the rock to fuck him good


Oh Bill, if you were living at this hour

I’d put little socks on your two bare feet

and spoon this dressing into your wet throat

till you choked and spat all over my bib


I’d give you such a gift of red white meat

you wouldn’t be able to sit for a week

unless to eat at the mantelpiece with clock,

bawling pilgrims thrusting your ass with fire


ferret teeth in the breast of a red bird


I would call it to your memory now

that a phantasmal fog of love had enthralled me to you


then, but not only then, in these my words

the tear in the fabric, now, the drop of blood.