Before the rains,
I live in your skeleton,
pressed beneath the crust
of your sinister mask.
I breathe the dust
of powdered heartbeats,
beneath your chipped breasts.
The spit from your lips,
searing as lava,
burns my throat raw.
I enter you
as a serpent burrows
into desert sand,
a parched orgasm
blowing through your
box of sticks,
waiting for fire.
— © Rick Baldwin
