she talks to me in a sweet mountain
breeze in the looming nocturn of a
tinctured sky, the leafspeak and whispers
that sound like the color of your eyes

in the soft swell of your clavicle
the clavichord plunge of your lips –
I am lost in the language of your
curves found in frequency and forum

All of you emanating in the hymn and
harmony of your form, an azurestill of wonder
where sound lays seamless across time
time that cannot speak nor ply my heart

against these fulminations, the incantations
of your song, the native tongue of your
figure in fuchsia pressing softly, ever so
softly on my soul as evening serves us life

nectarean and unremitting

© Thespian Drummer

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