His

A body wanders as a mind wades. Like meditation, like revelation.
So dream deep, I could almost weep. Where the wolf quiets the raven,
where I want no dove for trade, no. And I drift into his wave, his shadow,
the natural protection, and my girlhood nods.

I am a fever that burns for the mercy he brings. My temple trembling,
his hand a wing, and I want to go deeper. The intensity in violet streaks
across my milk skin heart. His talons to my cherry cheeks, my breath
caught in his feathery palms; this is my retreat, his sweet song.

The soaring sustains me, and he will follow the wild rivers
and smell the hidden pools where my wishes sank.
We will tango in the stars and lay upon the white innocent red passion
Honeysuckle under the woodland oak. A lumbering whimsy pure,
a moonlight lingering my desires.

Here, I can believe. With duty as thoughts and dreams and sighs
and secrets and tears and fear. And I think he is beautiful in blackness, too.
Does the night not blow cool? And no longer being of the world,
like a willing thing, more due feeling than I can sense, I shall surrender.