a whole week of work
wrapped into an ankle
to see if it is tanned or stockinged
one grows too old for hope
of that moment when plucked from a shelf
two souls affirm together
and do not see the swelling breasts
but dance in joy to tasted tongues
and slide and slip unguilty in the pleasure
wine does not ask
nor does it tell
so like the gate-keeper of macbeth
I shall grumble to bed
filing that ankle of desire
among my books
The Blue Book
No comments:
Post a Comment