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Temple Cone-I






All night, the gambrels creaked

and the orchard turned to dew.


Sugarbrains, she whispered

through the swaddling darkness,


Why do only horses have fetlocks?   

He grabbed her fetlock in horseplay,


brushed back blond creeks

from her eyes so he could see


her eyes go through him like nails,

her look sullen, her desire aplenty.


Nestling close as roof to rafter,

a crop of hungers in-between,


they sought to true their lyric

bodies like air in a bevel,


so when he slipped her the tongue,

she slipped him the grammar.