Sunday, November 13, 2005


It’s not what you think, but just as good. And gets better all the time, after fifty. Cuddle when you can. It heals me.

Soft locks lapel my shoulder’s face,
her scent is wove in this embrace.
Calf and thighs, like laid-by meat,
beneath a tent of knees tepeed;
and spent, yet fresh, fall off to sleep.

Timed-turn to breathe each other’s breath,
arms draped on hips and over head.
Legs bent in angle, breast meets chest.
Or back-to-back, face east and west.
Love the heat, these curves of flesh,
two mated souls, as feet are pressed.

Roll now right to true spoon-form,
the drift in sleep of dreams we’re borne.
Tuck tush to tummy, soft and plump,
to leave the mind and prime the pump.
Then stretched full-length and fingers fixed,
limbs dropped like cordwood in woodbin.
Moon chills the air, but gold the glow
in these positions good mornings grow.

1 comment:

  1. your making my senses salivate, but my proginations have long made such conjugations impossible. i hope time heals that too.