Movements II
(sentient gradations of these colours, unreadable)

I

We are close, you see; like feet, bare, to mossy flagstones
on the way to the same open-ended advent -
and my hair and their whirl are interchangeable in the wind.

II

And there is, about us, this intimate penetrability;
as if their secrets were my lair, and their hollowed
moistness, dark and downy, like a retreat enclosed
in ferns, were my own (and their) confession;

So, we mate, with all the unchaste purity of being
natural ; and at once ground and conception, we birth
ourselves – multiplied breathing creatures that spill out
and scamper away.

III

We may be tasted (if not reached)and then be deemed sour;
yet, left in the blaze of the same wait, we’ll swell, well up
in one another, until the sweetness of being ready
weighs us down -

To then simply fall, consummated, with a plop
like a sigh, upon the tongue of one same hunger
whose teeth will then crush us, to quench one same thirst.

IV

Ah... and yes, there are days when they’ll turn eclectic
like too many longings scattered by fingers much too eager;

And they, and I, will not crystallize as more than smears
of these colours, unreadable -

But sentient, yes, if you take my fingers to your lips
and lustfully, leisurely, suck them, the gradations, one by one…

-- © 2008 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®