A dance between two icons of slenderness,
Has me whisper words full of tenderness.
There is poetry in each fragment of gold,
Upon the crown to your ivory scalp.
I thwart the crudeness you’ve absorbed
And, between two pillars of flame,
Two folds remain,
To hide a show of fireworks.
Of sparks and drops of wax,
From a bent and worn candle,
A sword embeds itself,
Into a bed
Of deepest flesh,
And drags out the contents of a furnace,
Of all remaining blood to the incinerator
That may turn flesh to ash.
I would not cut,
But simply sink,
The blade between bed and bone,
And drown in the pages of poetry.
In your eyes, I become lost
In darkness where flowers become cultivated
By scents and ecstatic sighs.
My annexation is the cultivation of a desert,
Where the spread of white,
Is the spread of newness upon a sheath of gold.
To raise up a tree,
From an abdomen soaked in beaded sweat,
To see your sparkling face,
Of the same way.
For I shall melt all of Antarctica,
To see the spread of green.