spice

positioned randomly
like a ginger passion
shingled slats
through white iron
maybe curry
or cumin
can attest
the sinner man
all along the way
a pinch
or pearl
invisible lines
brown stiripes
as to
sticky iridescent wings
swarming in saffron
trails
under new nails
holding on to
tricep chills
awakening
little girl
stills
of amber pulls
and a taste
out of reach