115 Your roots must burn inside the oven of my thighs To burst in me your burgeons of the sun at night. To melt the wounding blades of blue inside your eyes My flesh must flower with your touch of silent fire. My tongue must ripen in the jungle of your mouth To drop your vows of seeds -- my vowels -- on the ground. Your walls must rise between my ceiling and my floor To shield my tiny sprouts of words within your throat.


Confined Verse
Collected Poems