The low sun bled the death of the day,
Gilding gold the trees
And dissolving auras
It was too much to ask for an aura of fire.
Now she delivered her handful of words,
Turning them over in a dark pink pit
Where wounds can be made useful.
In the home of her mouth
She savoured their shapes
And their edges;
Delighting in pressure
Of tongue-cradled vowels,
And his delirium
As they left the undulation
Of her lips.