ribbon.

in early, gilded silence
i dare tend to your more minute impulses,
those which speak of you:

the efforts in twisted silk,
ministrations to
gift your lungs, thicken blood, sew pleasure.

i am the curve in your collarbone
and the arch
beneath your back,
my thoughts mere honeyed passage.

(in Body,
we fill such mutable frames, and)

only in
falling
at the foot of Desire
am i flooded with purpose.