| Buried in her soft flesh, desire, warm, melting prophecy, I find no religion equals her taste; I would compare her to a warm pear on the inside. Still, I feel unsettled in the knees, perhaps to pray after all. This flush about me is fluttering birds knock-knocking at my heart� salvation in ageist moans echoing, still, amongst the still night yawn-thumping. How to carry her heart with me: drench me, please me, please her, entire. Molasses sunshine and forlorn no more�no more!�the rain feels like a warm sweater this morning, this hour, this breath. I breathe, seizing the pulse to regain the taste of her vein against my tongue coming undone, ravelled, restless, stolen, given. And it is funny how love can be created by hands interlocking for the first time; perhaps she is the buttons on my warm rain sweater, heater of the soul, the stole she wraps around me in the haze, and even the moon smiles. Where to wait on fate: fingerprints are the grooves of love left loosely on the outside of me. How others think without her, betray her pear and pearl and swirl of world on fire encompassed within the slow rhythm. I am enclosed in a globe of turquoise honey and ghosts streaming about my soul. Store me in the soft flesh of her palm. Ship me to the shore, the shore of the rising breaths about the canary sun and hold me with her gaze� honeydew-drip cartoon lips. Smile while I style and fashion my spirit next to her scent, vanilla cocoons and cuckoo birds amiss because I stole all their songs, all their wrongs, long ago in just a minute I feel the seer of attraction, healing, feeling, sealing fate two-tone mystery like the first bitten nibble of her pear flesh. Wash me please in the entity of her salient lips, and I charge, plead reentry into her coming and pluck fruitfully at her tree in two soft hands, wands of magic kept beneath her sleeping eyes, dreams stationed to the pillow where I dare smother her smile with a gaze of my own, with eyes that can barely be seen behind the leafs, behind the leafs. Come, pear, into syrup. Let me drink into the wee night-lit hours; I hear the seeds grow best in the dim renaissance, and revive the last hour spent with her, coming to her, lucid. I hear the ticking of the clock in my sleep and I like to pretend it is her heartbeat held to mine. I awake in the middle of her sighing recall, the slow slip of her thigh exposed like pear honey and plum sugar and find I am unquenched, still, by the warmness of her yield. � roadpan 2003 |
| Buried in Her |
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