These my offerings,
tiny and fragile, they must take root
in stubborn soil. Fertilize them.
Give them shape. Twisted they may grow,
but their trunks must be strong.
They must reach through the night.
They must be of their ground...
Some of these poe...
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The tender danger in my eyes seeks your flame; I am afraid to touch you; I fear to look too long, for I would put my own eyes out – There is too much danger in beauty. Where is the destiny in fire, that calls me like a sacrificial moth? My wings of searing soul have become powder. Only the wind makes me hover, at your bed, by your side, over your shoulder... I dare not trust the wind, it breathes too hard; I dare not trust the hot exhalation torn from your mouth during lovemaking; when ashes are blown away, there remains nothing but a dry husk of an exoskeleton, inching feebly to the light. You burn me, my love burns me, I live in constant fear of immolation.
