love dreams.

I dream of lovers
as varied as the flowers
which speak their names to me
in the wood.

Some corpulent and sturdy,
others barely there,
the ephemerals of Spring
the hearty blossoms of autumn.

I am happy to drink them all in.

Each one, though, is worlds away from the rest,
no common thread to be found amongst my attractions
other than
the wild hearts
which beat

to that

same
ancient
rhythm.

Her breast in my mouth,
sweet nipple supple
against my hungry tongue.

His firm hand
pressed strong and soft to my ribs
as I wake, reluctant.

She has dark curls and delicate lips,
pale freckles and long lashes
beneath the sun,

a pleasure drunk smile     s   p   r  e  a  d  s      across her face

upturned

as I kiss her collar,
taste her skin.

He has a coarse beard and feral scent.
Large hands which cover my back and breasts,
a touch so soft and slow. I remember it.

He strokes the hair from my eyes,
his warm body pressed hard to mine
I am small in his embrace.

He arrives and departs
all within the thin space which spans
the worlds between dreams and waking.

I linger with him there
long as I can.

It seems, it seems,
we are not of this world.

I want all of them.
And none of them.
These lovers,
I meet in my dreams.

Their touch and tongues and love and sex.
I want to fuck them and laugh wild howling into the night.
I want to travel with them
sob shameless in their arms.

I want to lie naked on the forest floor,
mycelium and dirt and ancient stories
p  e  n  e  t  r  a  t  i  n  g
the layers of domestication
which exist within me.

Feral and free,
I want to bare my breasts
to all their solemn gazes;
draw them deep
beneath the veil
of silken dusk and dewy dawn.

But there beneath the desert sky,
there upon the mossy earth,
I am content to lie
with dreams
more sweet
than any human
lover’s touch.

For the Earth
she dreams too —
of making love,
of Herself,
perfect.

.  .  .