The Iris Bearer

It is the moonlight binding together

our miseries, the hurried wine stoking

the embers of lust, how you let my mouth

challenge your shy, satin lock that I blame.

O my anxious bud, split and cascading

my honeypaper trap, you have conquered

a good husband, blew noirish smoke over

the spotless cinema of my union.

Apologia: drunk on gutter songs

and streetlight, you foxed me into your cage

where I moan in the summery night and

maintain the joy that was my only vow.