Th The lost hour of black magic
that trails the rough edge of midnight
when the moon seduces those
whose limbs dance and twitch
like fingers pricked on spindles,
and sleek, supple demons
polish apples and spread their wings,
perching on flecks of amber
to tangle the dreams of lovers.
Desire tightens in a catch of silk,
rippling over the bed clothes -
capturing your cries and whispers.
Buttons open like ragged wounds,
spilling soft pleas of want;
and the sweet torture of skin
pressing skin becomes a music
that leaves you unnerved.
You taste shadows in your mouth
and the bright smoke of memory,
as dark coils like a braid of jet
to blot out the stars and candles -
holding you a willing captive
deep inside the witching hour.