494 Readings | 3 Ratings

song of the inquiet siren

she spins
intricate patterns in palmed flesh,
a green heat piercing raw
erudition through naked
ears with a hard-won needle
of words; her threadless
hunger is strung from the rafters
by a language borne
down with denial; her hands
coming to rest at hip
crest, weaving
the hunger under my skin into
something like
longing.
Posted 08/26/10
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