The House of Flora

Jaw slung wide,

Brow bent low;

Set on sea salt

And berry wine, 

He cocks his hips to one side. 

His calloused knuckles edge into the 

Binding pockets of his rigid denim. 

A low moan, 

From his broad throat

Traces the curves of my cheeks. 

He is umber, and earth and

Pine;

The pinkness of his mouth grazes

The tips of my eyelashes. 

I, 

With

Pomegranate lips

In stupor, 

Am full of soft kisses

And private whispers

In cooing reeds.

My wet toes delve into the 

Soft banks. 

I approach him with the softer side 

Of my velvet hands

Facing heaven.

He traces my palms with his skin.

He memorizes my freckles. 

The hems of twilight 

Grace 

The 

Moon washed 

Egg white 

Canoes. 

Docks rise

And beads of Michigan

Glisten on the backs 

Of geese. 

In Amber, 

In Tuscan, 

In silhouettes of

Anticipation-

I worship in his morning,

   As 

" His breath

Falls around me

   Like dew."