A Moving Thing You have created words from our lovemaking, recite them this dawn to the street sweeper below, the boy binding newspapers for early morning delivery. Your oration over, I bring your mouth to my breast. Give me a word for this, I say. Honeysuckle, you answer. I draw you inside me. Another one, I demand. It has become our game now. Cataclysmic, you reply. You move till I tingle and throb tight against you. Love, you whisper, as we shudder. I want to break all the clocks, hold this moment in both hands until I absorb it from palms through to heart, but your mouth is a moving thing; it slides lower to love me again. Pris Campbell ©2008 Return to Poetry Index II Return to Homepage