There is a poem II (Becoming)

We don’t quite know when the poem
becomes the hour, or when the hour
becomes satin and drapes us in its folds
only to slide down our senses, leaving
them exposed, one by one.

We don’t quite know when each one
of our senses, thus naked and shimmering
in the sliding glow of the hour, in a strange
parallel becomes an avid voyeur:

Your eyes drink in the balmy flavour
of this pleasure quivering in my breasts
as my own glances inhale the sultry fragrance
of that desire whirling in your lips;
and from behind the smoldering sighs
that swathe our merged rapture in a haze
our entwined vision ardently follows
pulse by pulse, the hour rising
in our bodies, to the peak.

We don’t quite know when the hour
erupts and dazzles us with the radiance
of its accomplished dawn, or when
suddenly falling from that daze
we slide among the tangled whispers
of a translucent, fulfilled dream
and become the poem, again.

© 2006 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®