your evening lips that
I am the musk on the
silents of the wind,
that the embrace of
your eyes follows each
frail motion through
the joy of light that
quickly swaddles this
uncertain hope,
that somehow in the
gasp of wonder of my
passing, that perhaps
those lips in the shine
of our embrace will
sift through the wind,
and in the musk bud.
and I, the moist earth,
full of sleeping promise
unfurls with your eyes,
frail and determined to
push into the fertility
of your opening lips.
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