But for her head,
eyes would meet
and skin would grow hot
due to the excitation of the heartbeat
increasing the influx of blood
about the soft edges of the cheekbone
and all those hidden places
fingers can trace about
and palms press flat against
as breath prickles the ear
and thousands of tiny hairs stand on end
as though to show support
for a chorus of instincts screaming this, this now,
but for her head.
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Under the bones of the sky she splinters into inadequate words
2 comments:
Exquisite: ah, and I now see (counting), another sonnet! This one ravishes even better and more forthrightly than Donne.
Well, John and I are each two fools, we know, for loving and for saying so in whining poetry.
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