In the morning light, the void of thy lips
Parted as the ropes of the bee skep
In which the queen and her congregants
Move in slow, steady circles around the blazing tetragram
Around the centre that was thy tongue
And all the honeyed qualities thereof
which I longed to mediate as scripture
And whisper with delight in time with
The slow organ music of thy drowsy, sighing breath.

 

 

 

 

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ARTWORK: The Bride of the Wind by Oskar Kokoschka