It tastes sweet,
A syrupy figure of strawberry juice
Spiralling like a typhoon in the glass,
Tastes sweet as I kiss the rim
Why do I ask where to go
When caught like the wolf
Who licks an eskimo's sword?
I give my eyes to the stairs as I ascend,
They seem not to be steps, steps, steps, steps,
But one sheet of inclined metal
Willing me to misplace my left foot and slip.
My love is a red, red pool.
Not a puddle, but a pool,
Something that you can immerse yourself in,
My faint white wardrobe
Opened with two scarlet handles,
The clothes are on the inside,
Cotton, some silk, housing legions of you.