David-Glen Smith - Poet - Father - Teacher
She always laughs as Diana, hiding herself
under folds of cotton, the pulsing plush
circling, circling with the nature
of aviaries, the spirits of language pushed
to the front of her mouth How the taste of apples,
small and tart, mimics the taste of a tongue darting
between a couple kissing in dark alleys,
emotions exchanged, after hours, the night hardening
against them as they lean into each other.
The manner I wanted to exist: without
question, undeniable. No one ever
understood this thirst, this want to drink deeper
the essence, a mutual possession flowing.
An electric current. The arc of pulsing wings.
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