a decaying god
explores what he once
desired. he wakes a ghost
— a liquid-colored eye –
that never remembers
the growl of grass
on an autumn eve, when
even bugs breathe a lip rhythm
on an iced flower.
smoke works.
the night bleeds sex — an
eternal candy —
and, and air, and —
kiss her here. that window
haunts a sacred self.
MonkeyMoonMachine 
This is deep, rich and reminiscent. Very nice.
Thanks for the comment! I hadn’t read the poem for a long time, and rereading it now, I like it — though I might end it after “iced flower.”