Published: April 3, 2008

I’ve felt the pulp of your mouth,

its red poppy blooming

when your thin lips offer

the salt-blood of the earth:

the easy, softening tongue

and pearly knives of teeth

that relentlessly search

for the bursting of buds

in my fingertips

and the milky stars

that swim in my belly.

I’ve ached

in the empty bed at night,

asleep in the hush

of each barren stairwell

and the carelessness of undressing

with the lights on.

I’ve loved your heart turning

in its deep riverbed

for the lost young boys of movies,

for the music that flows

from your own rich flesh,

and for the sweet, live petals

of wildflower daughters

twisting their roots beneath the street.