Her Armpits

These twin earths,

hidden

holy lands,

where you, dear sisters of quiet,

read library books

underneath a dark

stairwell,

while in hungry times
this pilgrim's tongue 

returns like an overdue

thief night after night

to lurk and to linger

in your fields

of dank tobacco

of jasmine blooming,

listening for clues.

And your moist lips,

sweet with tea,

wordlessly moving

in secret, together.