this shy white sun does not shine down on me.
the perfect curve of your cheeks
is the only thing to be bathed in a new gold.
and your face turns sideways, shining silver,
your lips curve upwards,
bruised and reddened and bitten.
cheeks of rose, cheeks of pink,
boiling blood in a heart of ceaseless wonder.
and your mouth; it break the dawn itself
with the fiery stars you spit;
we speak of fire
and the sun burns brighter in the morning.
there is no boldness to this dawn;
it has broken windless and calm,
and all the dark has run defeated to the seas;
to the seas where our fire was quenched.