Wordle #245

245

I touch your root,
the empty witness,
the brief erotic spark held-
tongue’s length-between us.

I endure for we are not endless,
not without claim or resolution.
All the threads between us are red,
thick as whispers, they speak in riddles.

What feeds you?
What fires the furnace
of your rare, intransigent heart?
Grace extinguished,
how does one entangle the light?

Your shadow-white as an exclamation-
claws its way through my bones.
We make love in rooms
without corners, in planetary bodies
effacing themselves, in the igneous womb
of our primary malfunctions.

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4 responses to “Wordle #245

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