A Thanksgiving
You flutter in my pulse
like a small bird,
open wide-eyes
beneath my skin.
We are clasped in the hasp
of an opening and closing,
saturated and indentured
to pleasure-trussed
stirrings.
Hunting angels illuminate
our tongues and fingertips.
If we move too far
from each other
our flesh goes blind.
Gratitude is not enough
we endow each moment
to reverence.
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