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Atoning The Hours

This finds its way through the twilight window
where gumption holds its throat,clearing,
these are not feckless words searching for
a harbour to rest upon like a shipwreck,
this is a migration of stones full of unction,
castaway like an anchor, setting sail skyward.

This finds its way within the erotic pulp of
plums, yielding fragrant glass kisses,
shedding its flesh like pollen in a kneeling gesture,
exposing its collar eucalyptus, and stripping the
night with degrees of atonement.

This is summoned from the horizontal dew,
between blankets and galloping sweat like a
stampede of doves, encircling ecstasy, bridging
heaven and earth with the sound of ruffled sheets,
asking not for answers but a voice.

This is a penance placed before immodesty's garden,
colouring Eden with satin and lace, traversing the
visceral kiss with immortal lips, rendering with
teeth the peach to which the heart succumbs, and
holding aloft this pinnacle of the sweetest honey.

Kevin Harling.