Soft
brush of flesh on tender lips
Quickness of tongue, the scent of jasmine.
Our opiate eyes awake to verdurous glades and
Sylvan streams, to banks of grapes in pendulous bloom.
We
drift through plumes of iridescent light,
Where silken touch and ambrosial
scents inflame desire.
Our lips now part:
We enter sacred chambers,
Where
taste is breath and breath taste, forever new,
And we thirst.
Waters
rush through narrow corridors
And cavernous vaults of space and time.
We fall, riding currents.
And falling, we drink.
