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.
No comments:
Post a Comment