Wednesday, April 21, 2010

petit mort

Outside wind howls,
Crow calls, dog barks
Sky dark, speckless,

And I, within, wearied,
Solemn, sore with
Battling up this hill
Want only to
Lay and rest
My head on my
Lover’s chest,
Sweet, warm,
Satin-safe and wood-secure
Held dark and still,
Gathered in though
Worms of cloud
Gather without,
His heart and mine till
Sun peeks out.

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