Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jul 2023
it’s a tepid nectar
that now drips from these leather-winged amphora jars :

they circle, like harpies
down to us upon tumble-hot currents spinning off the face of the
earth




but there are subterranean cisterns
of something else

out there :


cool water
against us.


and my syrup-stuck lips are
dry
for
it.
kfaye
Written by
kfaye
50
 
Please log in to view and add comments on poems