cloud ropes tied your wrists
to a fence long as neighborhood,
jittering under the ghost of pterodactyl

kissing the tied wrists of another,
you put on black lump lipstick
with a bruised palm, waiting for lawnmower
to clear shaded terrain
for blades of orgasm

panting under the icicles extended
from the dangle of a weeping willow
skipping seasons to be near
the brown velvet bondage
of certain dopplegangers