Tuesday, March 26, 2013

For He Who Enters

O gentle one,
breathe in - I am warm on the wire.
My body rushes to the stroke, rigor
fills my palm as a lily might pervade
the garden.

I require more -
I need to feel
the madness in you,
tender lip, delicate thigh, and, and
the moments as they ex
-plore eagerness -
for you I am awake.

And O my the breeze lifts my dress;
its mellow depths, push cotton to cheek.
And in a state of array, I curve to fit
the form.

You follow    how stirring,
like a schoolboy, the gestures, the way
I move in you presence,
     my hair in your hands       it is
too much.

And there is something outside your door
                                  it is art, Italy, Neruda!
           No. It is only the sound
of the rain or a dream perhaps, but as your
mouth expands slow and silent

I peel from your skin in
blue. There is no path
more sustained than
           the one
              that leads to you.

Rapt in salutations we perform from one
window to the other, you grow fevered,
misplaced, lonely,
                                         in love.

O beloved, these words, like stones pressed
against your cheek, breathe in 
                  for I am [warm] on the wire.

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