Brief Violence of love

This poem was first published in the book: Randomly, a poem. All rights reserved.

Auburn now, 

the sky is slowly becoming a wound.

Exact time has become a mystery between the sheets.

Her body (jungle, reef, oboe) hints itself in the vague geography we occupy.

The lamp does not share its rhetoric of lights. 

Outside, the wind could be blowing enigmas. 

Here, only her body inclined to deliverance and the impossible levity of a music in ecstasy, 

so light and disperse, it comes disguised as silence.

That primordial desire in our eyes has escalated into fervent skin. 

Her body (continent, abyss, harp), 

once a promise, is now the sudden gleam of carnal desire among shadows.

"Come," her voice, fractured with anticipation, whispers. 

The improbable element has been shattered.

The battlefield has grown narrower: every sexual encounter is but a sublime war.

The brief violence of love catapults us to blasphemy.  

Such negligible pain prefigures endless joy 

(Eternity, unreasonably, fits within the incomprehensible finitude of an orgasm),

Sigh and moan are confused,

this very instant allows neither past nor future.