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…and what she didn’t know
was that his touch

had memory,
and each finger

trace of her spine,
each weightless palm

graze of her stomach, each time
his lips brushed her mouth … slightly …

slightly … in their breathless embracing,
the electric charge of her chest on

his chest was burning
the subtle curve

of her beauty, the landscape and expanse
of her skin…

(and her eyes …
and her eyes)

deep into the flesh of his thinking,
infusing his breath with new songs.

 

This is a very slightly revised edition of an earlier poem.
Originally Published by
decompressionzine.angelfire.com

—

Please Continue Reading

Sang Lee is Dead: memoirs in fragments
by Charles Bivona

[It's my Leaves of Grass]

» Start Here «

 

 

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