by DANNY KEIGHTLEY
I lose my breath in your cinnamon
falls, that straggle the arc
of your spine, like an opaque
river. I let my fingertips waltz
your stomach’s inhales – palms
against your crested river bed
with the panted ebb of cassia
hair, rolling against my chest.
My silhouette lips traverse navel
to rib, letting the web of my kisses
dampen the scar that sprawls
from blade to breast, as you hiss
against touch of it, as if, I trespassed
my tongue against line drawn in sand.