early autumn rain caused her lips to bloom succulent
and her limbs to cool and soften as petals unedged.
gossamer drapes gently swelling and shrinking
and releasing wafts of her faint perfume lured you;
she had all the windows open even as the air turned chill.
all the fat rain drops on her window sill
smeared and slick under your fingertips as you
smuggle yourself in as a thief
would attend his own funeral.
gladly die a thousand little deaths there, dear
smother under her downy covers and drown in honey hot
in relation to (and defiance of) the turning season.
there is no love like the love of your murderess,
languid summer days fading: panther-like, undressed.
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