Tongue Twistdead

I would infect you
with the fervor
of one million ticks.

Burle, squirm, wriggle

Feed on the richness
of your hearty parts.

I could loose my head
leave the swollen
balloon at the surface

ride your flinch south
down the pheromone
highway of femoral gold

bury myself at the fork
to the mouth of your lake

where I coat myself
with your hood
and emerge
just to breathe.