Again

I want to kiss the words from your mouth

my poet,

pierce the crease of imagination

my artist,

slip past timid inhibition, releasing

through each famished pore

as much, or more

as I empty this brush over and over,

slowly…

quickly, rhythm and stroke.

Squeeze me, mold me -

slender fingers long with lust

hold me.

I will ooze through your eyes and

over nipples polished slick,

rich and thick with the scent of warm clay,

oils congealing on neck and chin.

Lift your slender arms again,

my easel,

spread your fingers,

hold my chest, a taut canvas,

press your pink into my skin,

and when we are done,

I will hang limp, lifeless, still

in some gallery.

But soon, desire wakens…

I want to kiss the words from your mouth

my poet,

again.

end/michael