Walk this fever.
It cannot be
as severe
as the weather, surrounding us
in fog and bedsheets.
Watcher.
You look up to see
the sun upon your face,
as you cannot Turn away.
Chestnut to raining tresses.
Crystal to your smoothness,
though the seas
will not calm.
Carved breasts
stretch for the cup.
Speaking smile with feathered words
light in the drunk, arid air.
I leave winter, for you.
I enter summer, enter you,
with a finger
tracing your womb.
Modern Romanticism 