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...EPITAPH: FOR A LADY I KNOW by COUNTEE CULLEN THE ENKINDLED SPRING by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE LONG ISLAND SOUND by EMMA LAZARUS CURFEW by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE KNOCK by ABBIE FARWELL BROWN |