Fingers carpet my flesh,
Blanket my spine, a shiver
Where words cease.
White stone cities crumble,
Petticoats of red flower clump amongst
Tulips painting daytime fantasies,
Opening to the sun’s narrative as
My mouth outlines your crescendo,
The scent of wine on your skin
Sweet. I drink you, lips bruised
Devouring the delicacy of your metaphor.
(c) A Hannan