un moment à Bohème

under the trees where I lay my creek bed
my hands find warmth by the fire inside
her waters flowing like the music that pierces the night
in metronome to her quiet screams
afraid they will escape with their captivity
into the darkness of the lunar shadow
clothed in her nakedness her breasts heave
with the burden of this beast’s simplicity
intoxicated by the utter sobriety of this eternal moment
of recovery that never existed
in fairness to the occasions that do
she runs