Our warmth in the bloody sunlight
Is put on fire.
Our stone is charcoal.
Your lips are pine falling down into the brush
Of my chest.
Your eyes are tiny patches of sky in the cloud of smoke.
Our hands on each other are ashed mud,
All our wishes fulfilled.
Anatol Cordua © 2017
Monday, August 28, 2017
Our warmth in the bloody sunlight
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