His creased lips draped in sovereign scales of you
The culmination of all he could want
Between his teeth, pulps of Grace he comes to
After solemn months of false painters hunt

Two bodies by sticky fingers marry
Swimming and squirming like virgin child
Thoughts needle tender skin as they vary
Monst’rus love behind eyes meek and mild

Was it collapse or triumph of the will?
Worth the pleasure of that eternal beat?
Those nine days for which the devil would kill,
A Budding feast of passion, ripe to eat.

Post-sacred-writs-of-consummation wish’d:
A Grace still left in glossy eyes of Fish.