Of Swans And Seraphim
how like pollen were the hands of that beautiful Hunter.
her mouth matrilineal of midsummer,
she took foal through the spine and ate messily that ambrosia.
and oh, when she came to me,
her thighs were warm.
fresh from the lake she was.
smelling always of thunderstorm and mint.
I shed my sundress in the presence of her smirk