The Wound of Love

Wound of infinite profusion
Her lips on my skin,
But skin here is a thought and allusion
To a sphere within,
And an earth that so intimately knows
The meaning of spring.

Thus seared my being becomes an image,
A brilliant red rose
Aligning the world with the lineage
Of love’s holy throes,
A blessed wound pronouncing existence
A fruit on her lips.

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