Could you pick my poison?

I’m lost in the enclosing darkness of this falling season.

So lost, in fact, that I’m bereft of reason.

So for my poison, could you choose,

Something immaculately deadly, something that soothes?

Could you dance lightly upon what’s grave?

To this muted earth, though yet undead, I’m seeming too confined.

So confined, in fact, in mundane thought, much buried is my mind.

So could you dance and lift me lightly from my crypt,

Leaving me unthinkingly entranced by your prancing steps?

Could you shake my branches?

My clothes, like leaves loath to depart, cling too tightly.

So tight, in fact, that I’m suffocated nightly.

So could you shake and make me drop

Beneath those leaves (with you atop)?

So pick the poison and be quick:
For from your lips I yearn to lick.