the superstitious waning moon
builds pyres of lacy shrines
that cry of your delicate skin and
dangerous eyes,
the smoky protocol of a magic
no words could touch nor
fingers could sense.
The imminent deep screech of night
prepares to wrap her icy cloak
around our slight of form
as though to protect our mortality,
our shared childhood
from the whispered truths of space.
Your voice is the beacon,
your sigh the line of silk on my hot skin -
such tightly stretched
skin of yearning
that cracks in the absence of your fullness,
quivers in the shadows
of this dragonwater year.
Only the promise of purity
like warmed pearls beneath
a newborn's tongue,
like the hot newness of desire,
manages to sprinkle color
along the gray morning haze.
In these fields of mist
and infinite dusk, inside of
January's chilled bones,
I find your scent
left scattered along the treeline
like the fleeting permanence of
animal tracks,
magnificently subtle
and the signs of a faith bled dark,
an honesty no blooming wilderness
could rival.
You are my primal heart beating,
the beads of winter slowly weeping.
