Glorious

Daylight fades—almost aqueous as we plan an evening to honor hands, to die in, expose ourselves, distance to love.

The sequence of breath: a sole strength un-tethered, softened as it seeks harvest that swells— fertile beneath the air.

And it is written on the map—white breast in the palm, a string of moisture on the brow, tongues that thicken to please.

It is certain, a void that becomes, in turn,
plentiful—the taste and scent of nectar still sweet on the lip.