Copyright is held by the author.
Hear them cry, this final night of summer
softest of silk filled moans,
the channel of their desire turned up,
desperate, for one more gold spun
wings wetted and damp
thrum of insect wants
most tender of songs.
Suddenly, I remember
my days were spread out
like a table set full of hours.
Tonight, I listen to the crickets
my September body
warm next to yours.
My wings a melody
pressed against your legs
your finger inside my mouth
my thumb inside the hollow of your calf
a twilight symphony
our legs rubbed together
a deep thrum.