Flyblown
Her cutlets.
Touch by taste
Her leg in lace.
Thighbones, lie lows
Sky-sewn rhizomes.
When she is away
All the world’s phrasing goodness is locked away;
Kept at bay behind a punishing net,
Like a ginger sandwich-filler’s butter-eager locks against a mesh.
Demented from the length of time I spent inside my oubliette mind.
Alchemisland 
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