Saturday, August 14, 2010

A First Poem, A Giving In

Under the chatter of stars
let us eat fruit, rotten or ripe.

Climb over me, hip to bone
measure the precise weight

of longing in a tent made of veils.
Your bloodlnes crawl inside me

ants to a hill, stones to a grave
a slice of moon puncturing night.

Scrolls of messages
lie hidden in primeval sands -

lover, dig.

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