Wednesday, 9 March 2011

Bones and Tombstones

A curious romance of puriant form, some
purile insediment of lust that massed
our storm over flattened moss, heathen
bracken and needles of pine, caught finely
in the hair of my neck.

Victorian graves our bedside sentinels,
the earth and a blanket our co-conspirators
of heat in the cooling darkness.

It was kisses in the dimness,
not pitch in the fade of clouds too
thin to block the moon, too
thick for stars;

it was skin on air, and warming the grateful
wind that sometimes blew, but never
blew too hard or soft;

it was fingers combing sin
from hair, bare hands burying
it in the ground with the conifer as our

and hands under shirts
like succubus entrails on wandering

and the earth working with us,
its steady mattress, unstrung,
just whispering ground and you looking

and bones becoming flesh as blood
roamed through veins,
flesh becoming more than an
incidental science, a true
transcendence amongst those flaccid

and it was loving you,
looking up at the curtains drawn
against the sky,
the rain in our eyes,
a curious romance of firsts.

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