Goat’s Milk


A gentle cup in overflow
finds the form of a shape
so patient.
Thumbs bristling inward graze on
skin sprawling
as a field of heather
scented of earthy kin.
They motion toward a door
guarding a fevered tongue.
Lungs fill and expel
that mouth a song
upon rolling hills
of a foreign ground.
From the north escapes
sound sourcing deep within the confines
of a soul so inclined
and ill with desire,
that no fated disaster
nor fire could capture.
Trembling fingers meet a downy bed
where for now they rest,
a crown.
The sweet embraces
that hang from the lips
of each lover
begin to migrate as wolves.
Rising new hunger,
a blood-flood
for fools.
For our two,
another appetite satiated
by the night or –
for a breakfasted type
holding steadfast to the sight
light brings in morning.
A clarity keeps
pouring in
silver shudders
through twin spines
cast a glow,
film reeling
of possibility in overflow.

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