What else do we have
but what we can hold
in our own two hands?
Reticent whispers of honey
sprinkle on my chest
and I find that soughs
deplete the sweetness
burned into me.
In the palm, I hold
a blade of bluestem-
dancing, swirling,
wanting me to taste,
what she tastes,
when it rains.
I want some of that redolence.
I desire the sigh and suck
of a splitting cantaloupe
to...
Continue reading...