Written by: Charles Fuller

On gossamer lips
Wisped coppery tendrils
Showering sparks
Riding evening breezes
That radiate off my
Eyelashes in papery
Wet slivers
Sticking only when
Your song of ill-boding
Is breathed over me
Its primitive amity
Contused and crusted
On baneful syllables
In sweet consummation
Where at last I see the
Crumbling bouquet
That’s falls
Onto your pages