Poem Hunter
(11/26/1971 / New York)


The fire rises,
dances, dapples
the flesh
with patterns
of brightness and shadow,
spices the breeze
with smoky incense.
Does it really matter
whose sighs, whose moans,
whose hand wields tender skill?
I offer you myself
on this day
between the darkness of the mysteries,
secret dreams,
and the velvet shadows
that render the light
all the more brilliant.
a balance of love,
of devotion
of hunger,
in a moment suspended
between two breaths,
between one loving
stroke and the next.

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Comments (1)

I love your style! Rick