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...A POEM FROM BOULDER RIDGE by JAMES GALVIN JULY IN GEORGY by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON TO THE PEACOCK OF FRANCE by MARIANNE MOORE HOMAGE TO SEXTUS PROPERTIUS: 3 by EZRA POUND THE REVEALER by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON |