Your flesh is on the surface.

You taste of star anise; you wiggle like the borzoi
w/ backsliding wipe-outs & their aftermath:
a delicacy we drink to — w/ cattle calls of glugging purity.

At least our calls
‘hold each other open’ setting our interpretive devices to
moan toward the top.

Any higher, they never snicker.
(There’s tighter discipline.
Then it’s said repetitive indiscretion goes too far
& some at mixed levels are more disposed
climbing into casual ritual, putting
their lives on hold getting & keeping down.)