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the endpoint
How dismantled the specks of light seem, stretched, ensaffroned—equivalent to senescent volumes of dolorous sonnets wooed by the sun.
I peruse this light upon my sepulchral ribs; with the sweetness of my hibiscus tea fingertip I hunt it, I delineate the roundness of its story.
Here beneath the valley of my wine-doused breast, the line of your jaw like a tulip leaf moved, opened and closed over my cotton-woven skin.
The fervid grape, the pellucid nectar of your tongue, an ambrosia in the small hollow, a streamlet I soak my feet in.
There upon the pollen-sprinkled footpath of my wrist, you tread barefooted, clasped in the safety of your palm is a gilded locket, closed over a plait of my girlish hair.
I unfurl my eyes and an old dream repossesses me— your body like a white column towering over me, upon which sunbirds sat,
with childlike poise, with purity unspoiled, I elongated my unfilled figure to osculate the wonder of your mouth.
It enfolded around mine like spring's first rain, a fatherly kiss, a newfangled facade of mine.
I think you are a cathedral and I shall take after you; these specks of light shall come
shining through the windows to keep the stormpath of stone burning so I forget not
that the endpoint is the altar, that I am able to love the loving, that I am able to live within my body
