Her tiny breasts, dancers curved back

Silver earrings, steel grey hair, wet black eyes

We talk around, our varied folded desires

Hers may be, driving home in dusty truck to

A brown man who works with his hands

He can lift her and they dance at dusk, beneath solstice blossom

She feels she’s come a long way, her reedy soul throbs

Through back roads with weary curves, street lights illuminating her angular shape

And my desire is a velvet flame, like slow monarch flutters, trying to keep pace with winged migration

She is the swelling of a slow breathing, southern land

Shimmering in undulate mountains

Emptied of life, save thin cayote, sharp against moon

I am low to earth, crawling toward her wrist

Breathing the pulse of a woman, her careful sensuality

Turning in darkness, multilayered

Impossible to tame

0 Replies to “Crush”

  1. “She is the swelling of a slow breathing”

    AND

    “I am low to earth, crawling toward her wrist

    Breathing the pulse of a woman, her careful sensuality

    Turning in darkness, multilayered

    Impossible to tame”

    This is poetry at its poignant and best.

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