What hours I spend in dreams of sharing a sunrise on your thigh,
an inspired inhale,
your wide eyes that learn to merge.
What did those boys take from you
in that field behind the city pines,
a tractor nearby, that ditch,
the ignored blood on your dress?
Why can’t passion warm your dark distance?
A piece of you is cut away,
yet it lay in me
at the edge of your touch.
I’ve enough embers
burning almost to liquid,
yet none could pour into you.
These flames burn me to wet heavy ash,
yet I wait, blowing on the dieing coal
to feed the flame until it is blue and green,
green green heat.
I want to wake up to your bent knee,
the window behind it
and the orange light of your sigh
when all of you lets go and you flow into me
like a melting rock.
You need to be drinked like relaxed wine
spilling from a cliff of a fresh spring.
