Mine are layered in wet…
sticky torrid moist from the...

Morning comes
And I turn...

Who are you who in all humility
Deigns to be great in your simplicity...

I want to drink of you,
to drown in you...

Whether diagnosed dim by glance into eye,
Revealed by an ignorant anachronistic crack...

I taste the hunger
in her eyes...

She calls my name,
(no! whispers...

She pauses in tenacious indecision,
naked toes poised above the water...

Sheathed in tears,
Some edges slice...

Not caress, nor
nudge, nor even tap...

Spin a little,
stumble...

No skin of silk,
No atar of rose...