old matrix
The way light
catches bourbon curls falling
from back,
pearls dug from the dimples
of your cheeks,
iridescent candles or stars:
jade-tinted windows
to soul,
And I believe there is a God.
Lost in the lilt
of your dreams,
the tilt of your mouth
as if to devour me,
starving – where I am gladly food.
You’re giggling,
your frame is shaking,
And I have heard nothing sweeter,
so I am doomed.
I mistake laughter for poetry
And I know I am doomed.
spark crow