It is shy as a gathered eyelet neatly worked in shrinking violet; it is the dilating iris, tucked away, a tightening throb when fucked. It is a soiled and puckered hem, the golden treasury's privy purse. With all the colours of a bruise, it is the fleck of blood in albumen. I dreamed your body was an instrument and this was the worn mouthpiece to which my breathing lips were bent. Each note pleaded to love a little longer, longer, as though it was dying of hunger. I fed that famished mouth my ambergris. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE IMAGE IN LAVA by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM by ROBERT SOUTHEY ENOCH ARDEN by ALFRED TENNYSON THE LADY OF SHALOTT by ALFRED TENNYSON ON THE INDESTRUCTIBILITY OF READING MATTER by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS THE WINGLESS VICTORY by WILLIAM HERVEY ALLEN JR. KNOW THYSELF by WILLIAM ARBUTHNOT |