This body, your muted cries –
a drying river splitting deep woods,
a lowering babble over rounded pebbles.
The doe lowering her head, finds dry rock,
the rasping tongue on unforgiving stone.
Grey clouds that give no respite –
your neck in memory, fevered dreams –
arching back and forth, hair whipping.
Your knees bent alongside rising hips,
the fading roar of a remembered river,
no longer splitting your fragrant wood.
2 thoughts on “The Ninth”
Sensual and delicate – how lovely.
The series follows a theme, hunts after a story.