The mouth bites the hand's finger
leisurely bent, exhausted. Those lips
tired but pensive, attractive, dangerous.
Like a plump, bruised bird
resting on the boughs,
just as beautiful.
The hand against the face, secret
thoughts passing through deceptively
subdued; naturally, the heart connects
its arteries, connects the stories, remembers
kisses and bleeding. How the skin
catches light then returns it
in a quiet, circular fashion
like swallowing water
at the source of its dark origon.
