For My Softest One
For my softest one, in a hammock of satin,
A bed of rose petals on pillows of mink.
So lightly you lie, a suspended sonata,
In lines of fine ivory and islets of pink.
Hands hollow with hunger, my fingers would follow
Each lift to its fall, each peak to its draw.
To bruise or to break I would not, yet I think
That I must, as I live, partake as I give—
Eyes careless and blue beneath cumulus climbing,
Hair tumbled and free, framing all my dream fair.
I trace your terrain, hands floating so closely,
My heat and your cool wring a tear from the air.
I dare to drift over, hold still in the hover
Till naught but sheer will stands between us until—
Dire wanting, still saving, a chasm of craving,
Distilling desire into Need to fulfill—
Still close and down closer the rain to the desert,
First drops of anointment die shushed in a steam.
Time reined and arrested, eternal and blessed,
Made holy by all that we are and do deem.
Till eyes into eyes of reflection are falling,
The moment unknown of the melting and meld.
Consumed and consuming, the magnetic dooming,
As metals once separate in oneness are weld.
Confluence of burning souls molten and churning,
Long-suffering uprooted, sucked out with the flow.
Canyons swept clean of love lost and hope fading,
Washed down to rest deep beneath new fields below.
Felled fences left lying, the festive gone feasting,
The borders abandoned, the ships left to sink,
Till I rise again, for my softest one,
In a bed of rose petals on pillows of mink.