this cut of land

gray lines have yet to form
surface smooth as river rock
sun upon this cut of land
sky immune to the killing-clock

early feast, the sweetest dew
silence moves in secrecy
partaken flower, wanton tongue
and entrances to lunacy

remember when the ambered boasts
huddled in a dream forlorn
taste again the need to begin
springtime seed with hunger born

save these best, these innocent
thrills of eyes, this priming vice
where guilty hands have yet to touch
true beauty thrives with tempered fright