Pink Nude
                                                                                           by
                                                                              Daniel E. Blackston 

Why try for heaven
when we burn like this -- 
not made of bodies,
but of souls like silk --
inside and out, the finest
clothes, stitched by angels 
for angels to play in
and lose, layer by layer,
until nothing body is left 
but tongue on tongue,
navel rubbing navel,
until we know we breathe
only together, that our
heart-kicked sighs push 
into the light of each other,
and see past our eyes, 
to a deep nakedness
that bares heat and light.
Our skin hazes to flamingo
hues as our red-faded curtains
bloom pink sunlight
through the room, a dawn
that hits like candlelight,
tips us into a slow halo
that shines us to us
and makes a shadow
of me and you.