submit to the tug and rub of your lover's wants
the regal growl of his belly at eight in the morning
the ground plated with thin, wet snow
which sticks to the bottom of your shoe -- like something sweet --
your refuge is in a mug of oriental influences
and the tone of the monks' guttural hymn
take it with you, under the canopy of his imagination,
a torch of wonder and a wand of strategy
the logic of his birth and decay
the measure of his devotion
both yours to drink up
beside your breakfast of fat, juicy treats
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