I am not overt
even when good green absinthe is poured over
a sugar cube
the silver tongs holding
sweetness just.
I am not overt
will not tell you of my sinning urge to
strip you dear of clothing and chew
the very mercy from you
beneath my aching layers
where frill and fancy and the soft cotton of
longing
lie on top of one another, spilling over
in quiet crescendo.
I’m not overt
as you bend toward sunlight, creating a halo of
light beneath your breasts and I see
the coffee cream and the glory of
all that I have ever desired
drawn in chafed clamor.
With reddened mouths, we
empty our aching into indigo rivers
for to release them
and become that thing of wanting
does not possess a language sufficient.
If it did, I fear I would
spend decades
describing what it feels like
to surrender to…
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