Number 21

Melting words,
longing arms –
wrap now my waist,
squeeze me
with your care.
I am riding
the glass line
of the Equator.

Pour me wine,
let me clean
the corner of your chest,
you did not bring
any armor today.

Turn my face,
approach my lobe,
suck out
the thoughts of you
I fail to conceal.

My forehead staining the window:
pointing at
patchy meadows,
smeared clouds,
rolling mountain ranges.

Still, I am overjoyed:
my mind on the prelude
this is
to us.

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