his is the same caress
on glowing white velvety datura cups
the chalices to toast Selene
held high in midnight glory
his is the breath flowing from
the shadows within the dark
to the neck
across the cheek
the emptying of heat
the vacancy of comfort
surrendered to silence
enveloped in clouds of the mind
that soak the heart in fright
in night
in deafening stillness
when even crickets halt their violin legs
his are the unspoken words
in suspended thought
that call all attention to primeval utmost
to what seizes flight
and gives into his unheeded tongue
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