Tuesday, March 26, 2013

During hours of madness

Your words brush flesh-like behind my nape,
where I am pressed by a bitter wind
              on my way to make amends.
I gather for hours        these moments, where
I live inside of you, where I curl in the kindness
and cool of your extended hands.
I long to inspire them, to run my own against
them           guide each [breath] across chest
like a lucid dream or fervor.
And I cannot sense whose heat is whose
                            when I read your lines.

But I am compelled to keep you at hand,
caught in my hair like a prayer, a slip of
the thigh as I move broad, descend deeper,
                                           swallowing you.
But it is only a dream, only a dream.
And with reverie slipped soft beneath my skirt,
I step into the basilica, and everything
becomes still as if the members felt my thoughts,
sensed the confession still warm on my tongue.

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