unseen.
Nude the skin that is brushed by air and then kissed by moisture
that is sweat like unto a dew,
and invisible as a dream in morning.
But felt a weight that bends our minds,
in arcs as the grass formed suspensions by spiders.
This morning meadow of my fancy,
I stare down between the long valleys of my body,
and at the tender curls of my thicket,
and at the hands now eased from all tension,
released by the quivering that remains
shaking in my spine and in my breath.
The eruption now subsided,
a lushness restored to netherlands,
and a richness to the scent that hangs about my bed.
Bittersweet thought the fruits may be,
and distant is the harvest,
it was brought by thoughts of you,
always you.
Only you.
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