Up to the knees
in the smell and lasting of it.
We, warriors, laughing
until someone caught a mouthful.
Then, not because we were grown,
but because love’s the Viking maker.
It becomes more desperate then play.
A life or death struggle to avenge impulses.
You will rue the day
you dove into these mud flats.
Rue the day ’til the sun exhausts us.
It’s always been like this.
You hit me when I’m happy
and most vulnerable.
I’ll make you rue the day, damn it.
You’ll have mud coming out your pores
and we’ll laugh again completely.