Warmth: a study of fusion

Yes, darlin’, we are what we have lost;
kittens nestled under the stove
ash-colored

like our mouths ,,, I have fasted
from the taste of your kiss
so long that, look! the trees
have run out of patience
and bleached their branches.

The years have turned
another page, another holy book.
You believe history is written
in death -- a sort of sign language:
silent
and so politically correct, it makes everyone cry.

Yes, darlin’, we are really made of
what we don’t forget:
your arms like a fortress
too tall for the arrows of frost
and my peach breasts, somehow
fitting perfectly into your thirst.