There's an angel on your tongue
the soft susurrus of his wings against your
torus palatinus, where you will rise and
begin. He speaks to you from behind
the ash-tray of your throat, all those
moments lost on a Sunday eventide, but
Push, he says, Come undone, you are to me
We are simply just one, and you trace him
with your fingertips until he swallows you whole
and smears you well against the fold,
like love, there, in the stars, true
perfect love, in the palm of your hand.
You are fed, and you are one.

08/08/2008

Posted on 08/09/2008
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