Virgil’s First Pollination

What you say you are is
what I feel inside you:
warmth, your womb for truth,
room for another life
in the hollow spaces
a mirror of my fixations.
Romantics speak carefully
on this type of love, dirty
adoration. Sickening in its
intoxicating way, our little
lie, our lot of feeling.
I am certain — your verse
bleeds. It betrays us and
pleads us to fuck like flowers
blossom. Pollination, pick
this from my lips: may we
lay among juniper, dance of bees
trembling upon stains of scarlet
velveteen, knowing little,
as the first people knew — yet
knowing all.

-T. Hrafn Noyes

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