Race and Religion in Creative Consciousness

Now you’ll feel time rolling and slowing, warm dark
minutes far too heavy for hour hands’ push,
sinking down like teabags in water, wrapped round
us as we settle

into one another. The bed beneath our
backs might close around us as fingers curl, clutch,
coiling legs twined, doubled: a helix twists through
covers we haven’t

bothered moving. Now, when your sleeping breath drops
smoky, sweetened thoughts on my ears, I steal past
open lips to bury my dreams beneath your
tongue, like they’re treasure.

Summer 2015. Sapphic meter. For Olivia, whose sung version is here.