The tongue conformed itself
around this large glossy darkness,
a groove cut from its own kernel, whose tartness cut
the overwhelming sweetness of the tongue congealing
around the seed.

The very notion of sweetness, what is sweetness, how does the flesh
cloy to its core, the buttery white flesh
of the tongue.
It had no
meaning in itself, only that it gathered
and recorded the seeds to its milky, furred breast,
an embrace meant to
disclose that the tongue was ready and
redundant in its velvet pocket of flesh.