Saturday, 3 September 2011

Night Angel

You are a fine wine
and you go to my head,
I swim lengths,
I swallow water,
I drown
in your bouquet.

You are love’s swine,
a perfect narrow line,
the prick of a porcupine,
with spittle do you shine:
in radiance,
night or day.

You draw sense from chaos,
bring me in to rest,
a loving, peaceful test.
You weave me
into your vision,
wear me on your finger,
sew me with precision.

Never a harsh tongue,
always a soft attitude,
I am borne high up
above the clouds:
how can one person
bear my weight solely
upon their back?

But you do it:
you don’t even know it,
and that’s why
I wash your feet with kisses,
a baptism of lips,
(though my lips aren’t worthy to kiss
such blissfully clean

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