5/24/13

This Rose
By Biriap Foliujia


This rose drips love from its thorns. This need, spoken of with polite reverence, weakens until the plant is watered, bathed in sweet, eager nectar. The seed is the trigger, the earth parting before the ready root.

Connected, we dream. Eyes smile within eyes as muscles move themselves, hands guiding hands and skin following its own course, growing heavy with sweat. Our stars flare, blossom as we combine, call out, drive one another to sweet release-- and then, the animal is spent. The mind is abandoned to its own ruminations, its own considerations, its own views, goals, ways of knowing the world and those things that color it.


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I write my poems in a journal, then type them and send them to the world.