Your rack is packed with consonants:
with pikes implacable, metallic palatals;
snick of the locked dentals. Fricatives chafe
like a starched ruff; and throttled in the throat,
the grudged angst of the glottal.
While mine, the other hand,
is an open pannier: loose withes of willow,
all full of kitten vowels,
roundbellied mewlers; young wolves
yowling for the moon’s tit.
Both of us blocked from play, moveless.
Unless my brood may climb
inside your armor for a sop of milk;
unless you post your ranks in mock-embrace
around me, so our unwords entwine.