1
In the old room we belong, making a
song blended with two voices and day turns
to the night, failing to see, hear, or to
smell food, it is burning the house, sweet the
scent to trembling bodies learning
of one another pleasing who
in the room shares in the silk sheet
I lost the clock I race the heat
in the eyes looking in mine, shutter of
sleep, master of sweat, sitting above
and the hand touches a hand tasting of
lime juice and the food burnt with a white glove.
Copyright © Jake A. | Year Posted 2016
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