Poetry is composed from lime marinated
and left in a bowl. Words mate, experience orgasm:
ripples of the body rise again and again
to welcome the hardness of the poem that is coming.
The seeds of sex are smeared like salt,
stretching the skin, touch like the underside of breast
where the iambic throbs in the softness there,
words spill into me tingling,
then shrivel like lime in a clear pool of marine.
That’s the way to make pickles.