Modern Romanticism

Where shall I put them?

On the ivory?

On the nudity?

On your bared self,

So that tragedy

Cannot reach us,

I kiss a mark, and I burn it, and I hold it,

Into you.

You lovely thing.

A woman

Of smiles reaching

To the summer and winter sunset,

In this fatal moment,

And we are to breed, with nectar droplets,

From dagger and sheath.

I will bite,

And kiss,

A moment into nine months.