103 notes

I whispered an offer softly in the ear of your playful heart.
I closed my mouth and spoke to you in a hundred silent ways,
you know what’s on my mind, you’ve heard my thoughts.

2 notes

Her body is not so white as
anemone petals nor so smooth—nor
so remote a thing. It is a field
of the wild carrot taking
the field by force; the grass
does not raise above it.
Here is no question of whiteness,
white as can be, with a purple mole
at the center of each flower.
Each flower is a hand’s span
of her whiteness. Wherever
his hand has lain there is
a tiny purple blossom under his touch
to which the fibres of her being
stem one by one, each to its end,
until the whole field is a
white desire, empty, a single stem,
a cluster, flower by flower,
a pious wish to whiteness gone over—
or nothing.

5 notes

On a long day of lovemaking,
You fed me orange sections
In a morning break.
They were commas between
Two phrases of a love poem.
Now I am floating on your citrus breath,
I slake my thirst on your orange juicy kisses,
Giving that tangy taste to all our fluids.
As you press your navel-scented
Prints into my flesh,
Marking your territory,
You massaged my skin,
Licking your fingertips -
The way readers thumb
Through a book -
and tongued the corners,
Dog-earing so many places
You wish to return to later
For a deeper understanding.

Now when I pass a fruit stand,
How am I suppose to
Hide my excitement?

75 notes

If you wanted, for you I would be nothing, or merely a trace.