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Even in this night they writhe there
as they did in light thrown slant
against disheveled beds: curious
garden of consuming snare,
male and female grown wild:
fiber of fiber, bone of no bone:
rouge-kissed mouths pursed open:
soft lipped pitchers pouring in, not out,
and florid staffs, erect and veined as flesh,
that rise above the spread of flytraps’ fringe
and flange to guard those gaping gates
that once one enters none may emerge,
but only deep and deeper delve
into that secret, sweet, and drunken death.

Was it not with joy we entered,
inebriated by the lure of hope
atremble in our chests like wings
of blue-black wasps shuddering with delight
at sight and scent drawn out
from passion’s yawning throat?
Our bites and stings grown futile
in the struggle, we slipped down
and down until there was no longer down
or up but only tall green walls of light
in day and in the night the throb and tick
of outworn wings as struggles ceased,
until our liquefied remains had been absorbed,
drawn down into absolving soil,
our bitter carapaces hollowed, dry.