I do not ask
For thy virgin blood.

But rather, for thy hand.

Within the
Evening theatre,
Of my hope.

Thy knee's warmth only
Do I wish.

No touch,

Beyond the scented and vulnerable
Boundaries of thy heart.

I lie


If ever thee
Stopped patrolling thy perimeters,

I would have thee
in my arms.

Strands of earth
Would bind thy will.

And night would beg,

The overflowing
Of thy cup.