Pierce me once—the crying; pierce me twice—
 The dying; pierce me thrice—my laughing tomb:
This quivering feline skin, some kind of lark,
 Sharp noise, felt aerial, fled human wound.
O Queequeg, Lucy’s love, my Nobody!
 Unmake ambergris soufflé to scrap and salt;
Pets, lapping shattered tiramisu, whet
 Our mongrel tongues; embroidering the asp.
Bull-revelry, before we dance the waltz?
 Your sutra swans around my ichthyan lisp,
To charm the vipers out—that feather in
 Your bonnet inks my tapestry with bone.
I move to tiger with you on the cusp
 Of animality, that golden-threaded throne.

//

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