Figs on your lips;
a ripe philosophy
for mine to taste,
learn, and become
my intuition,
my home filled
with the fragrance of rain.

Tell me who we are
in dreary orchards
when dusky heavens
are bluer than your eyes
and you spit out fruit seeds.
Tell me before night comes
and our stars part
with my legs in your lap.

Does this almost love
make us poets?

Figs on my lips;
a hypnosis
for you to consume
dream about and become
your water lily,
your tender light,
among tropical plants,
guiding you to your own light.