Liminal Wanderers

I’d never undress for you
And I could, never, for you
Talk

To a me already bare’n tender
In Septembrine supple splendour
With no alibi I bow, surrender

The virgin corolla is not pried
In midnight incarnations readings
As carnation’t blooms

Genesis. Disarmed inner shackles receding
In childlike awe tracing with desirous fingers
Delicate old spells left on pale derma

I am, eager to learn new words
In creases and lush vestiges of Dharma
Nomads of visions, awake all night

It’s us playing in a windowless room
In flickering winnowed dust, an omen.
My hands crave making sense of it,

Crave to be in your mystery roaming
In the cycle again, to another bookshelf.
Maybe, that’s the prophecy itself.