midnight ours

the night deadens, the hands

curl and the chest

seeks warmth

the eyelash weakens against the thralls of sleep,

the inching at the neck

strung tight by the shoulder

blades struggling to give in to fatigue, the cold

of the air, the scratching at the stoop’s foot, there is red

on the mouths, fires in the bodies and

restlessness in the fingers rolling up the thighs

stalling at the knees

the snails entwining in the tongue’s gnarled branches.

{drawing by Oldřich Kulhánek}

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