Thursday, March 13, 2008


Incipient lovers
Who spend the days
Pawns of night's remembrance
Who whisper to each other
In the dark of joy
Because when faced with
One another and sunlight
To give vent to
The swelling that trembles
Behind the throat
Would require the lungs
Of a god
Or the song
Of a bird

But in darkness prostrate
At the altar of affection
Newly baptized in passion
It is possible to whisper
Of sacred things

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