What would happen if you weren’t afraid
to kiss me sober? Only everything,
all of the wilting world persuaded
to steal back into original sin.
Oh, if you were swayed to drop this charade,
the night would wear its hours with more grace,
till the dawn arrives, cautiously weighed,
spell unbroken, not a word out of place.
But you want me like I’m an unopened
bottle, and you’re a sacramental drunk.
So the table’s set, the tableau condemned.
And when this lush bedevilled moon has sunk,
from your bed I’ll rise like a Bengal light
or these birds-of-paradise, taking flight.
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