In keeping with the day and my previous post I accidentally deleted January 18th's sonnet. Here it is. The real Seventh Sonnet, reposted, and out of order. It's really time for bed.
A red bloom like a rose pressed on one hip,
A purple star indented on your toe,
Your lips still hold the shape of my two lips,
And everywhere they lingered sweet and slow.
Two voyeuristic birds are on my breast,
The shape of them a gentle concave thing,
Their silken wings beat time, at their behest,
This bed now has some very damaged springs.
The sunset has been sweated through this place,
It gilds the room from ceiling to bare floor,
The shadow of our hands as we retrace,
Each leaf and vine imprinted evermore
Into our skins as we lie here replete.
This happens when you use mantons for sheets.
A red bloom like a rose pressed on one hip,
A purple star indented on your toe,
Your lips still hold the shape of my two lips,
And everywhere they lingered sweet and slow.
Two voyeuristic birds are on my breast,
The shape of them a gentle concave thing,
Their silken wings beat time, at their behest,
This bed now has some very damaged springs.
The sunset has been sweated through this place,
It gilds the room from ceiling to bare floor,
The shadow of our hands as we retrace,
Each leaf and vine imprinted evermore
Into our skins as we lie here replete.
This happens when you use mantons for sheets.
This one is my favorite so far - I LOVE the imagery and atmosphere of it.
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