With greed, with fervor,
telling me to devour
the light within your eyes,
the sun among your skies,
and I’ll hope to undress
those sunset colors,
saving droplets, partaking in
heated highlights, crossed between
your tresses that lay
against your face,
your unburdened
shoulders, in their
lowered posture.
To residue, atop lakes
brought together for a ship
I sail on, I am,
returning to what I left, leftover
in her heart of a morning –
a mourner’s colors.
And has she painted her form
in leaking sweat,
among running waste,
when filth can captivate,
where an aroma
can always instigate?
A pin to a fold.
A curtain, over one,
sheltered in no disguise,
as she only
can find herself revealing
a durable summertime,
ample, even at what I
left behind.
Modern Romanticism 