When he met me after long, 

he looked at me and said: 

                         your teeth are thorns, 

                         your eyes sink into their orbs, 

                         they hold a thimbleful oil, 

                         like an ancient brass-lamp, he lit once.  

We sipped the sin of  

cold-pressed carrot juice, 

I felt the soft cushions 

of my tummy, resting on my thighs 

a pair of breasts will join them soon 

to celebrate gravity. 

Creases ploughed into 

my flesh, I mapped his 

thinning hair, his chest of silver sickles 

shone many half-moons to me. 

I flickered, 

feeling the feeble flapping of 

a moon-tide on my belly-shores. 

My light snapped 

with the copper-dust under my soles, 

gravity spread its feet 

into the secret of growing ancient  

with a golden flickering flame.