Wedding-Jacket Flap

In night my breath turned often
as I burned with Ishmael’s circumcision

twisting off gold spun wheels
meeting Ungaretti’s precision

by a red tied bow solemn and burnt
At dawn came parakeet whistles

poisoning, wishing out wine belew
rose purple of Lot’s boyhood fallen

beyond Leucippus’s teaching (air)
of encaved/divisible/atavistic pains