Thirty-three leafs out of a tea chest.
Mist-searing kettle at hand,
Readying for a miracle.
The weather is nail-perfect.
Perfect as the breast-shaped
Porcelain spout of a
single-handed receptacle…
Cure yourself…
Copulation time. Or rather…
“smote the chosen”… roll the floods down...
"Quod omne animal post coitum est triste."
Wait… the sadness will pass away, carrying
Bitter - flawless tang of “freely forgiven” freshness.
Pour it into a cup - white sinless porcelain cup,
Veiling the fumes of purity just about everything mortal…
The smell… the taste… a draught of lemon…
… And yes, indulged into every juncture of
This immaculate conversion, carved into a chair,
Sipping salvation and thinking bubbles, sits he…
The miracleworker… only one question head-full,
Will it smell the same in paradise?
The miracleworker
© Copyright: Fern, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103052900035
Свидетельство о публикации №103052900035
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