in the bloomshade of your mouth
each word is blossom,
a pink season
spoken on my skin
I fall without cease; how easily
you translate me
to spring:
orchards tilt. between my ribs
a bird swerves; softly,
the earth staggers
beneath my feet
everything grows wings,
leaving me lovelier,
lighter,
profoundly petal-tipsy





)!








thanks, my friend 




































138 old applause
