A Fall Morning
When you press against my lips it will be the end
It will be the end of time and the beginning of space
The thorns in the ground will sprout their wings
Your voice made of clay
Will strand itself
On the echoed shore of the back of my throat
The petty mind will forget its clinging
You will taste the shadow of the heart
As it spirals into pale water.
The thorns in the ground will sprout their wings
And your hands
Will pull
These dry and weathered twigs
With decadent agility
From between my shoulder blades
Into your cavernous shell
Where rivers have been sleeping
And I will stretch like a fall morning
Into the breathing seams of your dark skin.
(c) 2006 de Vie
Offline 
Send Email