Amber Moon

The horizon slips from my grasp
             with the day.
An amber moon lays on the soil
                             behind me.
The day-old globe burns gently
marking the eve of that Sunday.

It strikes me to my lonely centre,
    (something is lightened there)
slow, heavy breathing cannot steady my pulse;
I must submit to this.

Perfect ball of resin,
    Were I worthy, I would swallow you whole
to fill the space growing inside me,
the void swelling with the knowledge of
                               your existence.

Light flames caressing irises
an even blue to lasso
your delicate orange hue.

I long to call you mine
when I know quite clearly
it is you who own me.