From pumpkins
indulging in moonlight,
leaps the parched fragrance
of apples,
and cinnamon’s death,
a candle
carved from
the blush of a woman,
her full, round lips,
the flicker of her tongue
surpasses
wind’s snowy fingers,
sinks, melts in
passion,
its cheeks, orange-streaked,
with cream
dripping down its side,
illuminated
by purple shadow,
a sanctum of
burning incense,
and joyous flame,
dancing
on vineyards,
fields of
feathery wheat, ripe, before sunset,
oozing copper
and a watermelon’s entrails,
its ribcage stiffens,
as the cathedral quiets,
the windows, sweaty,
and air is aflame,
the crave for chocolate
leads to fridges crammed
with liquor,
yogurt and plums,
glasses of
steam,
holy water,
spilling the yellowness of
gasoline
across the walls,
taking out a match,
and lighting it.