Dark Chocolate
The kiss you give me on that first night, when you bare
a fault line from head to toe is like the eighty percent dark
chocolate, smearing the Laguna coast line, like the taste
of cheese-splattered crab nachos, floating atop
a blue mountain heffeweizen, lingering in my mouth,
like when I puncture your many red tomatoes, your pieces
of mozarella, and finish the meal with a glass of wine,
and this becomes part of my tireless heart muscles,
an endless cycle of purification.
I gobble grapes, down my throat taste strawberries,
on my tongue chew flesh and drink blood while I remove
your skin and all's left is rigor mortified musculature
with neatly etched black smoke lines like the outline
of a freshly carved henna pattern, like
a wrinkled landscape marking the satellite view of
a Google map. Press 'i' to zoom in 'o' to zoom out.
Two megabits ethereal transmission lines.
So what do I write to you? A sonnet sandwiched between
a cinammon bagel? Or a coffee song over a spilled cup of love
on a silver wrapper of eighty percent dark chocolate.