HOWLING AT THE MOON

Throw me down.  I don’t care if the grass is cold and wet.  None of that will matter once you lay your body over mine.   The dampness will begin to steam, enveloping us in a fog, and I will forget the line that divides me from you.

Can’t you hear the hum that surrounds us?  The nighttime is full of creatures that have come to witness.  Drawn by the heat we generate, they wait in the shadows and attest to the irresistible cycle that binds us to each other and the earth.

I feel it reaching now, loamy tentacles that skim over my skin and pull me down.  Its sweetness is on your lips and in your hair, burying me deep below the black surface.  There is nothing inconceivable in this place, this matrix of form and formlessness.   Let’s stay within it, suspending ourselves in the dark until we finally push up out of the ground like crocus in the spring.

But the moon won’t let us hide.  She will assume her rightful place as mistress of this gathering and call us before her, pale light shining like a beacon over your shoulder and into my eyes.   Who are we to deny her?  She cares neither for the laws of men, nor the self-imposed restraints that hinder the dream she sows.   She beckons and we answer, writhing as one beneath her silver eye.

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