Monday, December 8, 2014

Numbers 34: In Writing

Toe-trace the contours
of  tender ribs and veins,
as she rises and falls beneath you.

The slope of her shoulders,
her undulating  mane,
plunge down to drown your heart  in grave blue.

For you, she whispers,
for you. The supple plains,
the hard packed bounds your fingers drew. 

Mine, mine, you conjure,
over bucking waves,
across the hills you try to subdue,

where you are stopped, dropped
as she rolls infinitely on...

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