Khumagadi

 

Come to me

when the descending sun

throbs like a beating heart

among the trees.

Is it a tease

finite

like driving by

a stand of jasmine

in July?

You are the honey I taste

at sunset,

in the mind's eye,

intertwined,

we are a montage of

arms, lips, legs,

groans, moans, kisses,

perfumed by pungent cinnamon

recollections 

I remember

long after

the earth glides into night

on quiet

         black

                wings

 

 


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