pounding heartbeats, the torrid sun drying blue blood, which drips

as silently as Damascus sighs, my blood rides on the Crimson-winged Finch

in the Holy Lands, we sit in the shade of the immense fig tree,

meeting me here too long ago, a human turning inside out,

each time you touch my lines where a tan does not exist

life chases us, our bodies now inside out, like the fig so luscious

it hides its bright red flower inside its fruit, juice running down my lip

as I sample her ripeness giving birth to her flower deep inside

tenderly you lick the sweet juice from my chin

glazing over is my eyes as the wind blows sand in them

blinding me momentarily as Jesus did to Paul

merging with these lands, I lay upon her…