I do not ask
For your virgin blood.

But rather, for your hand.

Within the
Evening theatre,
Of my hope.

Your knee's warmth only
Do I wish.

No touch,

Beyond the scented and vulnerable
Boundaries of your heart.

I lie


If ever you
Stopped patrolling your perimeters,

I would have you
in my arms.

Strands of earth
Would bind your will.

And night would beg,

The overflowing
Of your cup.