by Witty Fay
There is this alabaster elbow,
Curling on the nameless letter
Into a much too uttered name,
Gilding a handful of words,
Worn behind that rib of Adam
That misses its maker in the rest
Of the harrowed bones of content.
My foul mouth flings at your wicked eyes,
Before pouting into resilience –
You look puzzled into the geography
Of the flesh that speaks under your palms
And then slowly shapes into a Venus,
Before the familiar eyes of a quiet Mars.
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Last updated May 21, 2015