Moth
As rich as a well-endowed whore’s labia
A lacey moth rescued from mirrored water’s
Edge breathing a spell under water Line
heavy lace gorged full her hood pounds
Drying out on a rock in a shadow so heating sun
Will not burn for a return to our moon lit nights
Bright and clear in my dreams of pleasure again
My dear playing with the dust from your wings
That I placed on a drying stone
Stitching a waning and waxing gibbous moons into a heart
Concealed the counting of twenty nights your dust was mine
John Milton:
“And hug him into snares. When once her eye
hath met the virtue of this magic dust”
Mistake
It was a liquid desire in moan of flesh
The past and future seemed to fence corralled
Our passion as we play
our clothes made Love next to us
watching this delighted us
Into competition to out do their lust
My belt tongued your panties
The buckle harnessed the the clasp of
Bra we laughed at this sight as unbuttoned
Shirt buttoned to your blouse breathing hard
As panting legs tied knots to worn
Knees we are doing this not the clothes?
As our flesh lay bare our garments have
Fallen in love our mistake it was not us
Crystal clear liquid turned to bitter tea
Holding our barrenness no moans
Our clothes betrayed us
It was our mistake it was not us
