Morning Sex

The tangled mesh of morning fog.
A weave of silver veils gently
teasing.
clouds of tiger iris dawns
    and claws of golden rays.

Stretched taut on silken threads.
Dead men bob, a bamboo beat.
Touch, a southwind breeze
through high pine trees,
stroking deep her own storm
    in my groin

Rain drops, dancing toes
a hail of silver scatter chimes.
Lightening strike
in deepest emerald green,
eyes, the light, the glory of the     
    storm.

     – Dave Kavanagh

Composed entirely from ancient memories 🙂 and research conducted in public libraries.

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