JuPo 7 (long poem, syllabics again)

Molt

Love, let nothing touch me unless
it is the nibble of your lips
tracing my neck, my spine, my hips,

stirring whispers of sensation
beneath their subtle nuzzle. You
may do with me as you wish; I

offer no resistance, eager
to discard this days long toil
and be absorbed into the bright

light of unbeing where we will
transcend the snug mundane; refuge
in that nook where we are nothing

yet everything; that locus where
we are weightless, where we can hide
among bowers of apple trees

sheltered from the changeable breeze.
Only then will I be released,
be risen to a new plateau

able to shed my carapace;
my unfurled wings iridescent
from sunrays you cast upon them.

copyright 2006 by cookala