the lament of fixity
gazes on stone, its death-fires  encircle
the slender body of the doting Sun.

this is our time spent again
when our days obdurately say
that our inimitable skies smell of
wet willow—

our time has come to sleep.
the soggy horizon closes its eyes
and darkness enters like a thief.
aureoles criss-cross into
touchable delineations.
i am closer to the Earth than I was once
before you, bared to profile
like a fruit pared by your teeth.

what awaits in the gleam of one's
waking is the fruitage of nondescript music flowering in my ear:
the curved entry of your breath,
receiving it, my ear's bell,
shaking the cathedrals and by the pews
of my somnolence,  a trespassing whirlwind, a dewdrop, trickles of flame.

are there lips, with there power enough
left to clench in their growing?
this den of such tender love,
when i roar ardently dressed as
  an admiral in sleep's sea,

i, mounting the waves of your body,
  dream of lions.