-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.