Committed to Memory

What part of my love is ivory?
The skin entirely covered
in sheets of adoration by
my rough fingering.

Before and after an afternooon of song
loose clouds compete to stay put
as long as the breezes stay strong.

Which words are right for whispering
in tones not for a sister
or an innocent or unfamiliar
white spectre?

How flows the curve of the calf?
It follows like the other half
already committed to memory
disturbingly.

Where between neck and knee
does the future see and feel
the low tremoring preceding
eruption of adjectives?

After and before a morning like this one
clouds should be allowed to drift
where they have no permission.

Don’t her bones dance and feet
remind the palms to entreat
the waist to rest from too steady
circumstances?

What part of my love is ivory?
The skin entirely covered
in sheets of adoration by
my rough fingering.

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About mrsorenson

all over the place
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