Between life and death
a photo finish race
will decide the relationship.
There was intoxication
at heights. Your throat had
become hoarsed, sliced
after a scream. Matchsticks
were thrust in the
gnawed mound of kneaded
flour. The kitchen
was going to explode.
Barehands you were
picking the black beans;
parting me lip by lip
caressing me thumb by thumb.
