What Some Call This

 

Gods make untoward

importunings in the night.
In indigo and wine-red light,
the fine delight of a caress may
metamorphose into strangling,
then maneuver back
to wrangling through

the warming embers
and the pitch-black shadowed
murmurings of unexampled
love, to which, below, within,
above, the only possible
response is crying.
Some call this dying.











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