Number 21

Finches melting,
the knot of longing arms,
band now my waist,
squeeze me
with your care.

Barefoot,
I am riding
the glass line
of the Equator.
pour me wine,
let me clean
the corner of your chest,
you did not bring
any armor.

Turn my face,
point at my lobe,
suck out
the thoughts about you
this skull
is trying to conceal.

My forehead staining the window:
pointing at
patchy meadows,
smeared clouds,
touchy mountain ranges;
still I am overjoyed.

Just because I know
that this
is a prelude to you.

 

 

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