Among Iceland’s Greatest Dons

eclecticismgunfight

Across the divide, in between the dogwood
and valley green, I tasted your lips, like a
pure sugar—sweet, as the sun blistered, and
I held you in my arms, and I can smell the
water still: sensuous and sinewy, much like
this day in the North, as the light fades into
the dark, we quench our thirsts upon one
another, and sate our needs in the glen on
day, and drink from our essence, and drip
honey into the grape leaves pour greens,
and sour blend, supple friend, so moist in
the night’s air, sunk into our bound life, all
have failed to capture this moment, this
glory, but our hands grasp and lock with
unctuous sunder, belay no blunder, perhaps
we’ll lose each moment as plague eats our brains,
but rest in your bed tonight, my sweet, wonder
and life live on, no memory sanctions to one’s
attention, for…

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