bruise3I strain at the cords
by which you’ve bound me.
Bodily I am yours.
You want more.
You want the great blooming
welts to point the way to a love that claims all.
With coffeehot soothing hands
you take as much as you can
and give me everything I need.
You give me your darkness, your darkest,
mysteriously proud I can take it
and transform it into starbursts.
How can this miracle be?
In place of a gnawing blankness
there is now the wriggling of joyous worms entwined.
View is free of early birds and full of nightbloomed flowers;
We make grand plans.
And I keep straining at the cords,
keeping up with your enchantment.

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