Opus

Etherea

After the meteorites bled auric red on
lover's thighs, a mirror image of
our lips
devoured the sun like oceanic deliria
painting psalms on the contours of our
bodies in all the shades of azure
as mountains crumbled like chrome leaves
on yellow winter snow on the landscapes of
our sins, fevered in hourglass infinity.
Our cerulean lungs beat against our veins
to the rhythm of our breaths,
in and out and in and out and in
a mirage of catastrophe, a solitary
constellation in the silence of phosphorus
from yet another death to come.

You are made of poetry and hunger
and I draw echoes on your skin with
fingertips as forgiving as your mouth.