in
the swollen heat of august when
the
moon has no pull you are shy
between
the banks of your knees.
I
slip beneath the rippled
silk
of your skin, the cool
current
of your fingers
holding
the silence.
a
heart of struggle born
in
the last breath
and
the mythology of the quest.
my
emptiness can not contain you,
a
lost vessel in the baptism
of
your leaving, and the
finality
of destination
.
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