She smirks, sets herself up
on a cinder cone—How does
it feel, she asks the old mountain,
to have no choice but to feel?
Succuss of Anoton’s glottis.
Rumbles, plutonic debris.
Feel this, she hisses into his
sphincter, then does something
evil with fruit—oh, the power
to cry! Oh, to be able to cry!
His mouth is under the sea now.
The past is a quasi-fetish.
I was only a child, but my
obsession with you was divine.