These days
are tied down
mostly
by print and paper
or they stay
asleep
firm, ripe plum,
plump.
Still your hands
seem webs or nests
--places
that are home
And i miss twisting
around you like flame,
making you disappear
inch by inch,
sweetly, in sweat:
while your touch
like twilight, smudges
me purple-tinged.
_
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