-1Fine young scholars let their coffee grow cold.
Floating tranquil on their backs,
Withered copies of Poe
Strung between their teeth,
They cover their naked bodies
With Byron's blackest ink.

The boy with charcoal eyes delights in blurred lines,
Smudges the contours of his face to blend in.
He paints her portrait.
The shudder of feedback pours from opened lips;
Radiation streams from moist fingertips
In a monochromatic wave.

She speaks in sustained notes.
He wants to dive from her tongue
Into the sounds they make intertwined.

At the edge of a cliff,
A stretch of turquoise bursts through thirsty ears.
Their feet slip on the rocks . . .
He pulls proverbs from pages.
She's always wanted to fly.