May I hold you? May I squeeze the persimmon fruit
that is you
This body has wont
to shiver towards you, to extend arm and to spread fingers and clutch your shoulder.
What’s become of
the fragile bird that stumbled from your rich brown nest;
where have I gone? I am without
the drum cover, the skin, taut about hungering, holding the desire in.
You are but inches
from the chest,
this cavity that is moaning, vessel being buried beneath the weight of
closeness, is not enough. If some gods
I shall swallow you straight into me.