Snowstorms in June
apple blossom in January
curve of a morning song,
Our sadness chimes with
fervour of Cathedral bells.
Your mouth tastes
raw from the fields,
your down covered body
some swirling sea creature
laid to rest on my shoulder.
We’re not made for other people,
with their murmurings and climaxes
they leave us bemused with their idiocy.
It’s a question of allowance
breaking mental chains that bind us.
We are poets and nothing else matters
nothing except the clime of the verb
punctuated with kisses.
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