to turn from which is love, the mind
finding without that wall at which to thrust itself
itself and, my tongue as good as not the mark, mission
to seduce you, that we are not breasts and the mark
only of an idea by which we are
engulfed and yet because it is
implacable because I want you, giving
demanding at last the sacrifice of that
to which it had been life demanding, striving,
we wipe from our flesh the mark
by which we are not breasts the mark of reason
to turn toward which is agony and yet
and yet …
rate
email
print
link to this page
Comments: 7
Bravo, my darling. I would draw you to my heaving beasts if I could.