this coming mouth over softly of sunlight
is subtle stuff and warmly arrives
through cheek as pink as rose
nude laughing, the
fooling of fingers in dark hair,
the rich surprise of lips
in a dark room
pinkly aware with morning–
grunts rolling over into
my arms and i
kiss its neck
(this small naked
My Dear who's come through winter
Growing with soft roughness
How you have become my kiss,
The pressing of my heart within
And the pushing of my breath.
Oh Dear your hands are small
And move into my hands
With smallness, their pale beauty.
Dear, in Winter, who is dying,
You are life made skin and health;
Your lips are always playing
With softness as their wealth.
keep these hands alive in your hands; that they walk and breathe; that their skin becomes downy in the spring, and from them spears love-roots of dark grass, filling over the hills and meeting with the excellent night their shining bodies.
live, love and smell the rich perfume of your lovers hips; meet and again touch with them your cheeks, and delight in them–the coil of their heap.
they are with your body, and to touch another's is a great privilege–and i know it.
wander and know the nape of them; laugh and extend your blood into their own.
invite their inspirations into your own breast, and make with it one respiration.
they are cool and wonderful between the ears; they are soft laughter and stupid giggling; they are the arcuate sleep of a rose thorn–deeply within your skin.
know and love them.
hold not back your laughter, nor praise, nor joy in their clutch.
touch, ramble, delight in the visceral perfusion of their mouth and kiss.
my mind again returns to these thoughts of mouth:
the parting of seaways; the excellent bridge
of its voice; the smothering intonation of
its warm and bossom cloister.
i remember it in the new morning; naked and shifting of limbs.
it kissed down the back and tasted
between its thighs of sighing and saltsea–cheek and blushing.
i remember and i move:
the winsome drove of its dull dream
catch and habituate me. i am alone in its fingers; and even from which other kisses cannot wake.
occasionally there is laughter–i can hear–from way off.
there is the curving tremble of its arc.