Free Verse # 289 (a wounded bird)

To unlearn all my words,
become an adept
in the religion of her silence


His touch
in her veins
volcanic lava,
a poem in her womb
swelling into a sun.


Between us
space itself has turned flesh,
a thickness throbbing
with blood and fire.


With poet-fingers
her breathes he weaved
into a scarf swelling
the womb of night –
when you inhale
it is her fragrance;
when you dream
it is her face.


In her mouth
his kiss turns brine,
a thousand waves
frothing and rushing,
raging and lapping
the shores of her ache,
lusting for her wine.


My heart
a wounded bird
deep in the forest
waiting for your call


Blanketing her
with my heart,
a nocturnal sky
in her skin burning
a sea of poems and stars.

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