Your ‘crow black’ hair
Shines in the light.
I think to outstare its beauty
But fail:
Sensate
I run my fingers through its tensile weft.
You are all hard flesh.
I press my hands upon your chest
And feel the tempered steel:
Structured with delight
Each layer beds my yearning.
We circle each other
The room hums
Upon our perfumed snare
Capture and release
Netted in time.
The gods retire.
Only memory remains
To staunch the mind’s rebellion.
In touch, your taste
Alone, murmuring
Bound, in sorrow and desire:
July 2020
Gar Jones