Your eyes are like two piss holes in a snowbank
long discarded aging yellowed pits
Leading to a bottomless soul
Vacant and empty
Like a summer house in winter
blackened by the long descent
From equatorial bliss

Your skin the color of baleen
Left too long upon the thresher's floor
Your lips the color of innuendo
baked by the desert sun
As you come to me with
bits of string and cuckoo clocks
Determined manipulations of unknown origin