Objects

3 01 2009

I pour wine down your spine,
over its tumbling ridges.
The liquid pools in the honeyed hollow
of your golden back.

You are my cup.
Lay still, as I partake.

I lift your arm, ridged with veins,
and open your hand under my chin.

I raise my imaginary bow,
and play your viola limb,
you sing for me.

I pinch your lips, luscious,
they’re flowers in heat.

I’ll tear them from you,
to wear behind my ear.

Violent blossoms,
that whisper love.


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