Blood licks its lips,
Pales the etched flesh-
A stream from barren brown,
Collects in silted pools.

The tongue placed feebly
Past lust, passing the falling side;
a vessel's
inner vessel drips;
As liquids still emerge,
Drain deep to the ground;
diffusion fumes
the steaming tomb;
The drying lip licks delicately,
Does mud fuse to rock?

Inhale the salty breath:
at best death floods
the mouth, filled with fluid;
or less, the dry mouth sucks
where clear blood slips.