Of course you cannot say it

without saying something else.

It sounds painful.

You knock at my door, and I am kneeling

or maybe crawling through the mud,

flat like a snake, like a sand-dollar.

Fingers pressed into the grass,

this is real, this is real,

digging into the soft fleshy wound of you,

thin and animal-boned, prone to

shatter.

I mash my teeth like a beast, salivate,

drool,

spill desire down your front.

I hold your palm in my jaw,

feel it make a fist.

All this talk has made me hungry, you say.