In the shadow of first light, before day or
night or any breathless whisper – the torrid
worshiped the turgid, and love was not a
restriction or a curfew.
If you had said “it’s hot” you would’ve missed
which laws were melting, what tempo was
beating, whose skin was burning or what mind
was enlightened or brightened.
Heart flesh womb wounds panted and clawed –
emerged and crawled, spoke saying to others,
“grasp and cling, and emanate your passions
as illogically as believing.”
Arias sail from windows, and gypsies float stairs
into the aura of your apartment, serenading and
wishing you and your lover as fine a death by
fire as is possible.