Sleeping with her

The way she slumps down

into the bed.

The way her breasts expand

creating a sea of skin

to leap into.

The way her darkest parts

begin now increasing

those thick aromas

that will drown me.

The way she sinks

into the flailing sheets,

her eyes half closed

like the lids of the moon.

The way she sinks down.

A hundred years ago,

a woman like mine

drowned in her bed

with her infinite breasts,

while the poet

gazed, captivated,

wrapped in the full cape

of himself.

And long before then,

a woman and a man

swooned backwards

into bliss and annihilation,

and she was full

with the depth and breadth

of all sighing life.

And she is long gone,

and my woman is here

in complete possession

of this universe

plummeting into the raging sheets.

And I am haunted

by these endless and

self-contained lives

that must go on.

 

Copyright Ricky Barrow 2014

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