She
She comes with horns and tail
In nightmare.
Made of air.
Yet on film such
Lissomeness she carries
Heaven when she walks
(On all fours she is
The metamorphosis)
Hair done or undone,
True to the touch
And true only to her looks
Till she comes with horns
(Not the moon)
And tail (not the comet)
Someone no woman has met
In the mirror.
by M. B. Powell We ought, first of all, to note her oceanic eyes flecked with sea wrack. And we should pause to consider the wavy wilderness of her damp hair. I will not dwell on her cheeks ruddy under my thumbstrokes. I will not attempt to explain the shapely abalone shells of her ears. I wish to call your attention to the cunning animal of her mouth, muscular. I wish to say something about the mollusky dark language of her kisses. I am obliged to mention her sudden breasts, breaching, rhythmic. And I am perfectly astounded at her finger charting my lips round her nipple. Here, in this connection, let us notice her nipple against the roof of my mouth. Here, in passing, let us observe ...
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