Notes About The Poem
Craig Cornish's Ceraunophilia Contest...17 Jul 26
Aftertaste Of Evening
Somewhere along waxed moonglow,
he drifts like a sweet aftertaste
on my lips...those warm fingers teasing
my frail wantoness
that even the pale moaning of his flame
becomes a thunder in itself.
And what is compelling about the musk
of this star is how one gaze can enter into
my universe fondling hidden caves
when he heaves gentle gentle love;
raw as touches unbuttoning my cellar:
A hundred whispers drape mounds
of my peak that burns in oil
and I succumb, we entwine... so delirious
into the lucent, stormy beams of his arms.
Till the falling of evening, when again
he strokes laughter on my hair
to linger on my trails undressing
my skin with songs of flowers --
while the malleable lightning in his irises
becomes utterly silent...tame.
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