Walk Maurice. Don't walk too far.

I'm  tired of watching from afar , the hand in the black slit of throat.  If death ever—
I would steal you back because you're
Forever, the joys and the silent wishes
Of my tongue that braze more than the
Sweet fall sun. You're a paradoxical finch
In ripening.
A skill I learnt through kneading  beating
The graven streets on an undefined gravity
Tongue or flute, glacier or eagle the eye
Of love gleams too much the same
When insanity will run into spoils of
Wedding cloth. I am woman.  I will make
You . Son of anything,  at my feet
Abandon this wretched slavery
Abhor the tempesteral music because it
Stings like no wife's mouth but I'm
Forever on your tail for a brisk wash
Of the sweat.