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Click hereToo late to be up, mi dulce.
Too early, with the moon
full in the night, hanging
in blind omniscence. Distant
birdcalls approach. Dawn
stretches in cool mist
to lick the Earth's face clean
Amante, lift yourself.
Haga que su deseo pide.
Make your desire plead, Mendigo,
for my mouth and the grasp
of tongue, teeth pushing you
into sighs and the little
remonstrances of fingers.
Here and here,
suavecito, supplicant.
The sky is turning to milk,
gray pearlesence; the birds
are speaking.
The night breathes its dying sibilance.
Silence. Skin rising, falling
together.
This poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 37,500 poems.
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is better than the one before.
I wish I could describe the pictures I see in these
just gorgeous, languid, timeless lovers.
These really are paintings, works of art.
and the words......
Seductive
Some of your best writing ever
Thank you
never heard morning quite described this way, nicely avoids the cliche of gray. Very nicely done!
"The sky is turning to milk,
gray pearlesence; the birds
are speaking.
The night breathes its dying sibilance."