Not the consonance of her figure, too exquisite
to stir up the beast in its fleshly den,
not the helpless power of her eyes
or the merciful stabs of her tongue
drawn from the sheath of velvet and air,
not even her breasts protruding bashfully,
or her neck, scalding like a cascade of tepid milk,
or her unsurrounding hips, or untwining arms,
there is nothing in her that could halt the fall
into the bottomless well of another soul,
nothing given to guard, nothing stolen to fret,
just a blue alley without end.
Sunlight dripping from the fingertips,
the peaceful smell of melting wings.
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