virgin musing

your face is hoarse and
dully hot, the swan-song of august
finding inch after inch of my
skin.

i feel your lips
like two halves of a dried raisin
but softer

your scent swelling,
bubbling through me to rest in the backs
of my eyelids.

an unfamiliar taste sticks in my mouth like liquor would,
bald and dangerous.

(i think that my mouth must be full of
gravel)

the virgin musing:
i am alarmed to note that
no tremor marked my spine;
the heavens did not unravel

i'm a harpist playing second fiddle
to a heady casanova,
discovering unpublished oceans
and burning the map.