spleen kisses thorax rubs
the sins of the fumbling fingers
few
and grunting
by the guests and the staff
note for feeling
alive in the winter
no grappling in the shade
of a full
moon
only awareness
this moment
and will to wield it
light to burn
transformation
in cobalt crayon
carved into
the holy foreheads
adorned
with love
of accolates’
drone song