Despise the mosquito’s 
precision, its slow injection

and withdrawal. A pinprick 
on the skin. We’re black fury. Flesh

fevered. Our signature’s 
the rose bruise. The raised welt. Slapdash

to drink in the vein’s blue 
rivers, immerse and rise in red.

We’re gyrating shimmers 
jabbing the corners of your eyes.

Do we terrify? Think 
Paolo and Francesca. We’re love

bites on the jawline, 
behind the ear, under the knee,

back of the thigh, hidden 
caresses. As Orpheus sought

Eurydice, so we 
journey down, down into the skin,

into veins requiring 
life’s sharp oxygen to turn jewel-

red again. Who are you, 
bolted behind screens, itching welts

in the shade? Fall in love 
with your wounds. Follow us into

the sun, and embrace, yes, 
life’s bloody feast, these open wings,

the sultry fury 
inside whatever really lives.