Sunday, July 15, 2012

sonnet one hundred eighty six

always earthbound to the
splendor of your name or
the fragrance of the sound
it makes when it leaves

my mind and escapes my
lips, always drawn toward
the exactness of your
intimate flesh, of your

dreamy, imagined paradise -
we walk and embrace
and look at all that

once was real, and continue
to believe the same rocks
and stones make us an altar.

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