The Instinct That Fulfils
/Steven Ilchev, 2012/
O how to love you,
I only know by instinct that fulfils
My quill and ink at every hour
That growing tendency to melt
Upon your sensitivity of bedded flowers
So perfect so ensconced
In lime-scented,toiling bosoms
Of emotional confinement liberating,
So sensual from wavy-haired fields...
...Of corn emancipated.
No comments:
Post a Comment