Par | 2018-06-21T01:05:05+00:00 10 septembre 2012|Catégories : Blog|


I could lie against you,
mouth on fore­head, limbs woven
into a knot too dense
for year­ning, hea­ring the gos­sa­mer flur­ry
of your breath, the wild near­ness
of your heart­beat, and it still won’t be

close enough. 

I could swal­low you,
feel the slur­ry of you
against palate
                       — and throat, 
ravish you
with the rip, snarl
and grind of canine
and molar, taste the ances­tral grape
that mothe­red you, your pur­ple­ness
swir­ling down my gul­let,
and it would be a kind
of kno­wing,

but you still wouldn’t be
me enough. 

I’m lear­ning, love,
still lear­ning
that there’s more to desire
than this tri­bal shud­der
in the loins.

But I’m not sure
I’m rea­dy
for it yet –

that shock
in your dai­ly kabu­ki
of shape and event.
Not yet.

Not yet
that shock
of vacan­cy.