How slow we grow

from those nights we
kissed like lions,
catastrophes of teeth in throats and raking claws,
until one would fall and the other would slink away
bleeding and breathing out red pearls
from an opened throat,
turning in descending circles
having found some quiet shaded place
to lay down in,
licking the ribbons uncoiling from sagging flanks
and waiting for the dark at the edges
to paint its slow self in
to the sepia fading centre.

How slow we grow
into the red and waiting earth.

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