Dusk. After love
we walk a teetering balance
of summer twilight.
A tiny
dull-lemon warbler
silhouetted atop a pole
wheezes a melody—
tiny fluff
against sky
blowing wind
into a pipe organ
of passion.
Fragile bones carry
ligaments and musculature,
nearly transparent
yet throbbings of sound
pour through the air,
touch our innermost ears—
almost another lover
moving within, sweet
blood warming again.
