Eating velvet with you
There are weekly rituals
in a tired motel
where the velvet is the vessel
of quiet obsession
And the inlets carved across your
cheeks
are also in my hands
my mouth, my belly
There are weekly rituals
we perform, moving
with practised steps toward some
place
our wrists have brushed before
Erring on the sycophantic as we
fill
the other's throat
with the shapes it needs
to be full, to know velvet.
