Where You Are, I am

I caught her in blind folds with a
horned skull in her perch
red arms tight tourniquet blush
at what range and at what wind speed
is she no longer beautiful
diagram of her skin like an
alluring road map
misplaced distraction of the
pleasure of fucking
spiral of black horns
black hair like disparate icicles

path of my falling tongue a
descension only she knew
only she could recite with articulating
lips the prayers howled tonight
that holy honor fell to her
white skin where under tension his
cables they with claws held tight
imprint of my trespassing footfall

where he came
where he went
mark the passage of time with how
many more red sunsets tottering
on that gregarious cusp
only empty bullets
becoming daily a temptation in
the cylinder.

TA