oh

4/6/05

it’s faint, like the
brush of a kitten on your ankles as you
wake up and place your
feet unassuredly down on
the cold berber below; this
whisper that you curl ‘round my ear
tastes like soft-serve on the warmest of
August evenings, a little bit of chocolate
drizzled on a calming heap of vanilla elegance

elegant … yet … dark

with a hint of an African sunset
behind the closed doors of a plainclothes
Presbyterian retreat
so let’s stroll for a time, before we run out of time
before the sun remembers its time
and dies

and oh,
keep on whispering those things you do