I want to make love

On Ginsberg’s

Burlap bag.

I want to feel the weaving

Of coarse threads

Against my skin.

I want to suck

Juices out of every word,

Feel it dribble…down

Past my breasts.

I want words

To shrivel in my mouth,

Taste each word.

Dried leaves embossed

With the drawing of a stranger’s face.

Like death.