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Forgive me, please, but do repeat what you said while its fresh in your head, the way those consonants stretched, before you forget |
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Wait there, that's it just at the split of your lips, before your tongue gives to lisp, wearing that sweet sinful slip, spins a crippling ellipse |
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A swell of strings sing 'neath the pleats of my dress and speeds what beats 'neath my breast until the song they suggest taps traces of wet |
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What wake that shape did make conducting the way they phrase this endless refrain and for the next several days I'm braced 'neath the waist |
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Creased of these sheets and half asleep it seems to speak through me |
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The sweet symphony might simply be the sound of space between conceived of where we meet |
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Might pure proximity then cease to restrict that which exists of such bliss, where that it rings of all things with strict consonance |
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Bless we with breath lest we forget what you said to loose this noise in my head for that in flesh unto death might we seamlessly blend |
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And should I pass away I pray a tape be lain upon my grave and these sweet remains may play that melody to say whats left between these knees at ease |
