The red earth graze
on your chin
makes your tilted face
round like the world
An iceberg tooth
incites my lip
as if I were set adrift
colliding, capsized, lost
(tethered nevertheless)
in your unforgiving latitudes
Brow cool
and fever dry
as any
brazen templed sunset
I suppose I must be the yellow dog moon
with my lopsided grin
bridled on a half-mouthed horizon
changing my mind
(and back again)
a creep closer and dark
with each circumnavigation
Still
when you gently
bite my face
I start to die again
