Ratawicka 104

Warsaw rain,
and a wind whipped up in my hair.
In clouds of smoke,
i travel now,
through metal clanging doorways,
i step out of this skin.

In this dust filled space,
thick with the sound of another era,
i am the foreigner now.
In burnt light
our heads are haloed,
like the saints that watch from the walls.

Steam arises as hands wash like a child,
this head of mine.
Cradled close
Madonna has not held
even the head of Christ,
with such delicacy.
I take off my clothes,
let the straps slide off shoulders,
feel the soft silk of skin on skin,
Waiting for the thrust of flesh into flesh,
in the cobwebs of night.

No longer a desert,
which we failed to traverse across,
but an intermingling,
an ocean with tumultuous waves.

Arms and limbs entwined,
sleep still evades,
heart thunders a tattoo into the night,
one cannot soar without falling...