Woven glass

A mix of fiery gems
makes night tingle along frosty windows
with a huge resonant loop
of yawning want and nervous jaw clicking.
Kneeling before alluring phrasing
like de Chardin humping Le Guin
in a barely contained thrill of nonsense
spread over fingertips and lips,
so tasty when the rest of the world is starved;
a decidedly decadent swish of crystal
on winter blacktop
where the whisper of wind
keeps time with a fading year.
Warming the watcher from inside out.

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