Saturday, May 24

The Author

In the silent places, softness
Responds to warm breath;
Fine hairs rise, rouse

The lithe creature beneath
Skin to which it is not accustomed.
The author’s press impresses,

Touch draws pulses, wakens ash.
Steam cushions roaring minds
And the quiet ruptures,

Splits apart, mocks admonition.
Tempests pump hot blood
Through hot beasts.

Then free at last speaks
The forbidden mouth,
And eager ears relent. 

No comments:

Post a Comment