Everything is the same shade of rose-colored,
rose-watered elastic, pink, pink flesh. I reached
deep into the caverns of the butterfly cave and pull
out torn-up ashed pieces of rose petal, pedaled.
It is pink, soft and brown pink, like the color of bare
back after sun, morning glow yellow. Pink, pink rose,
deep-watered, soiled, splashed rose, pinked up, perked
up after grocery green picnic, tied tight like a bow.
Knotted, double knotted, tied tight like a pink, pink bow.
Wavy-weird, dreamy, creamy pink and white, light pink,
the color of her flesh under clothes.
I want kisses like the underbelly of a kitten.
I want kisses like the red-
pink, puffed-pink of her lips; let me touch you there.
I read that the paw pads of a kitten are made
of the same pink stuff as his cold, wet nose. Everything
is the same taste of rose-colored rose water and I
have pressed her flesh to colorlessness.