Monday, November 07, 2005

"I'll burn the hotpads"
He warns the woman
(the one he has transformed
into a conflagration of desire)
As if a little scorched fabric
Could damper this flame.

Below them a flowing wet blackness called Willamette
Above, cables stringing pavement to milky sky
Sucking her fingers into his warm mouth
A bridge of heat carries them
Between river and stars

Slowly drying skin
Arms loose, outstretched; languid
Together unfold like the wings of a sunning cormorant
Drenched from diving a shared inky darkness
To chase that silvery fish
Which darts just beneath the surface of the flesh

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