tumbling, barely breathing in a fevered delight
you embrace me with your persuasive grin
our quiet, beautiful voices on a flesh horizon
become shadows on the floor of affection.
in the insubstantial being of somedays,
perfect petals of passion
float before a classic grey sky.
the stroke of wine, a touch of tea
dropped beside a sea of lustrous dreams,
we slip in between two thousand tomorrows.
walking through stirring seasons whispering blue,
winter skin on my beggar's plate.
your dawn's harvest wine sheathes me in your autumn wool.
catch myself weeping on an earthen rose;
tight black holes in this heather moon--
i am no more than moth.
