by Ryan Harris

I am lotus-faced,
soaked in yesterday’s
pollen breath and
God’s nasal exhalations;

and you are
Apollo, bronzed:
laurel-lipped and
luminous; and
I expect swollenness,
erotic blooms under
Zionesque appendages.

I imagine your hands
palms weighted with
crocus vernus;
I imagine your body
in spring.

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