La Belle by W.F. Lantry

An ordinary morning: as she wakes
still dressed in last night's evening clothes
she turns, remembering
whatever she had conjured, heat or dust
the half draped mirrors of her home
in revery transformed

and turns to me, whose fever all night warmed
whatever she conceived within
her solitary dream
ice blossomed forests, shorelines, cobalt seas
figures across a fallen bridge
expecting whispered words

from me, invoking flourishes of birds
as prologue, while uncovered skin
renews our harmonies
as I reveal every secret rose
her body o fers, touch the ridge
outside her slender hips

caress the lavender between her lips
my voice fades to a quiet stream
feeding a gentle lust
and while my fingers, slowing, lightly comb
her trembling warmth, she starts to sing
just as the long wave breaks.

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