Robert Beveridge

Posted: January 13, 2017 in Poetry
Tags:

Tongue of Fire, Fingers of Gasoline

I lie here naked, wait

for you to join me. Wish

my hand was instead

your lips, your magic tongue

that coaxes a rush of plasma

from dirty linens, dextrous

fingers that tweak nipples

until the electric creaminess

of that triangle spends

itself on belly, breasts.

Smeared with the evidence

of your perfection you

are more beautiful than ever.

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