tightened high in pitch like spring
steel striping down to ivory,
spreads out a broad expanse inviting me
to swoop in with solid nurturing.
My fingers play a song of oxytocin
and I pluck you from the music waiver wire,
stringing beads of blessed pheromones
together with exotic jungle wine.
Love me, lovi lovi.
Your soul, more eloquently:
a grape held firm between forefinger and thumb,
gleaming with the sun’s translucence
through glistening green and glowing cool,
a sight of muted opulence,
savored in the second before teeth sink
into delicate flesh and explode a sweet
burst of bitter flavor out to eager taste buds.
Your soul, oh one with light and crisp running in rivers
through the stillness of a sleepy mountain basin,
is the anticipation of barrels corked and left to age,
growing slowly into what they've always been.
I am eyeing the shelf with a mystic’s vision,
sensing the ticking winding down,
wondering what notes we can expect from you.
I am idly running hot,
tracing bands of blackened iron and
split staves of oak with writer’s hands,
coercing your next alterations to the plot.
Fomenting fermentation, as it were-I merely wish to test the flesh of fruit.
|Glistening but deaf // Kingshead British Pub|