Her skin

is still alight

weeping
heat

in lucent ashes

on the white

covers
stained

with wrinkles

and sweat,
and they make

flowers.
Her skin,

pearled with dew,
sheathes

the night

and plunges
it deep

into my eyes

in tremors
and sighs.
Her skin,

fills the room

with chimes
and I,

but squandered

dust
am blown

in her thighs
and I,

but squandered

dust
am sown

in her neck.
And her skin

lets its ivory

loose,
and it rages

through my fingers
down

to the wrists,
rushes

and shatters

in a clang
of areolas,

bronze cymbals
that brand

my lips

and burst
on the tongue.
Her skin

is still alight

weeping
lucent ashes
and
they make

flowers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

____________

Photo: Unknown