Offspring of Obsidian

Come slink
next Septober
(or at worst Octember)—
we'll slouch the mid-autumn beaches,
dust-drenched.

Half past
the fleshmelt hour of silica,
you off to your silk sac,
I to my lair,
we'd sniff

that dank
Earth pungency,
Vegas corporeal.
Our hearts may cough up a lubdub,
(or two),

brass valves
plumbed to spun palladium plaits
which in mid-Thermidor
seemed wantonly
saucy.

Swirl that
mortality
that you know becomes you,
I'll bring molecular Janus shrouds
for two.

They'll sough...
too soon, you rakes! too soon. We quit
that place that craves us not:
our hatch date, love,
draws near.