"plusate" poems
Pigments of light
draw me to the surface as air
rippled against my skin beckons a
new day.
Between us our contorted bodies gather heat as distant drums
plusate
a primal language long forgotten.
As polarised opposites, we are held
by barometric pressures
with only gravity to our name.
Soon we loosen
& like tectonic plates we slowly drift
heedless of the aftermath above ground.
Shiloh Harmitt
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 12:39 PM UTC