Melted glass that bubbles, pops, and cracks
like a laugh, or the slide of shining skin
on porcelain in the bath — you rise and splash —
you settle and relax, you sigh and glisten.
The smoothness of a thigh like pink petals:
fragrant silk just like the heart of a rose.
Grey moth-eyes of fluttering fog that falls,
fading into the night — why are you closed?
I should have known better. You should have known.
Even honey sours and petals drift
like snow. But there’s a place where love still grows,
row on row, a quiet garden. Be quick —
before our hearts are hardened, we’ll go and find
the snoring bees, where time has conquered time.
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 9:44 AM UTC
Melted glass that bubbles, pops, and cracks
like a laugh, or the slide of shining skin
on porcelain in the bath — you rise and splash —
you settle and relax, you sigh and glisten.
The smoothness of a thigh like pink petals:
fragrant silk just like the heart of a rose.
Grey moth-eyes of fluttering fog that falls,
fading into the night — why are you closed?
I should have known better. You should have known.
Even honey sours and petals drift
like snow. But there’s a place where love still grows,
row on row, a quiet garden. Be quick —
before our hearts are hardened, we’ll go and find
the snoring bees, where time has conquered time.
