A Moving Thing


You have created words
from our lovemaking,
recite them this dawn
to the street sweeper below,
the boy binding newspapers
for early morning delivery.
Your oration over, I bring
your mouth to my breast.
Give me a word for this, I say.
Honeysuckle, you answer.
I draw you inside me.
Another one, I demand.
It has become our game now.
Cataclysmic, you reply.
You move till I tingle
and throb tight against you.
Love, you whisper, as we shudder.
I want to break all the clocks,
hold this moment in both hands
until I absorb it from palms
through to heart, but
your mouth is a moving thing;
it slides lower to love me again.



Pris Campbell
©2008







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