by Jon Corelis07 Nov 2013
The heat has stung the lizards numb, Elli,
the white church scours itself with glare.
Ecstatic mules devour the afternoon
by the rusty fence where poppies smudge the sun like the blossoming wounds of Christ,
and your arms gleam bright as dew on a dragonfly's wing, Elli.
A god dreams on in the olive tree's angry womb,
the balcony's shadow slices the street,
and your body is sweet as a knife, Elli,
your flesh is a casket of flowers.
In the valley between your breasts I hear your heart pump molten stone.
Enfold my breath in a rose of musk, Elli:
in your black eyes I see my death, Elli.