For Elaine

S. Bert Cooksley

My brain is an ancient tomb where you,
A quick and shining lizard, come to feast.
Your little unexpected teeth bite through
The thick board busily; and the least
Splinter dropping from your pink tongue
Calls forth squeaks of delight:
I think, therefore, that you are very young.
T also think that a belly so white
And tender and so full of rich black blood
Must feel particularly well
Slipping through sweet grass and warm mud
To the leavings of hell.