excavation

[burnunit]

Don't run, rise,
devoured by it,
and touch the golden fire.
Out of the earth they climbed
sweet loam tumbled from their lips
my pink mouth opened gladly
as the sun unearthed her
blackness washed us
bent us into helixes of desire
My lover arrived
in all her rooted finery
she is a vine, a winter squash
safe inside hard skin
and tolls a deep sweet sound
when you tap her, finally
after parting all those leaves.