I
The night, frightened and
hunted by its shadow seeks
refuge in our bed
II
The well-dressed past and
the disheveled future meet
in the naked now
III
You know who I am
I am the old customer
I am accustomed
I come here often
not borne by the wind or snow
but the heat you throw
all that you purvey
your soft skin, your heavy sighs
I mean to consume
drunk on your nectar
now wanting nothing at all
except to serve you
IV
after swallowing
your hot breath
I slip into
the small of your back
cautious and close
as I can come
trying to bridge
the gap
to breach
the meridian
where you begin
and I end
I'm particularly fond of this bit: "The well-dressed past and the disheveled future meet in the naked now." I've been thinking of late how the present doesn't really exist: the past is constantly devouring the future.
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