Thursday, July 9, 2009

Verse: Her grace

In the fresh
naked morning
I find you and
your magnificent
sleeping skin
delicious to hold
and sacred still
is the silent staccato
of your breath
like a mild
summer breeze
or lambent fingers
of flame
that tickle
my neck
and hasten
my yearning for
your moist
full lips
as gentle as
the depths of
your drowsy embrace
I drink deep
the recollection of
how a fevered evening
became this hot, tiny
matinal joy
of wanting you,
worshiping your
sweet pleasure
and knowing
nothing escapes
our passion
not the sky blue
eternity above us
nor the generous
pervasive bouquet
of sleep that beckons me
once more

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