Nótt

Nótt

There are charcoal ruts upon my thighs,
in stripped back hours soft hands scale snow,
and then in garden, betwixt unrest,
I let your body undress my skin.

There aren't conversation in weakened hours,
when the greyest light has reawoke'.
We do not address the root of our root
nor bite it from its unearthly dark.

Instead, in silence, like moons we wax,
scent seeking skin, closer on close,
and between your fingers you guide my tender
tips to space where the Gods can sing

until these scenes are rhythmic and gasping,
until the beasts are intense and well,
until wild chills become storms arising,
reincarnation - - blissful, free.