Mescalin

Throat is dry, very dry.

The carafe is nearby — glass and hand are one.

Skull opens window-wide, mirror-wise.

Fingers penetrate the air, climax one by one, and all again, again….

Pores explode into each other, the glass, the walls. Room — he fills this room.

His skin is papered to the ceiling. He leaves me here. Fluid, flowering in an easy breath of first winds, he is in sight, but lies beyond my reach.

I have no reach!

I, skull, open window- wide, churn out thoughts on my own, without his animal fingers poking my bone walls.

I am sitting on the bureau, unattached, relaxed, free….

Let him find me.