Scott Morrison


It starts, each time, with tenderness.

The long kiss,
The subtle stroke slowly adulating the cheekbone,
The single finger palpating the wide gulf
Of the neck

And our hands move south
(As the morals in our mouth
Are strangled with saliva)
And we find there grows
Among the delicate flowers of your breasts
Dark roots
In my sickle thighs,
A harsh malevolence of muscle –

And then the tussle.

Giggles at first
As I gently cup the smile of your eyes,
Gently cup your breasts;
But as feelings rise
Our hands plunge merciless and
We bruise each other blessed till we break.

And the distinct tightness hardening and hardening
towards some ever-great familiar definition
that comes with the scalding fright
of exhilarating lightning!

(The thunder of our hips again has died.)
And then a break, and tenderness once more;
Only this time I find
That we lie on crushed petals,
And worry suddenly that all the leaves
Have been utterly blown from the trees.


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