The Body's Poetry

Do not call me shallow

For I see the curves as a pen

That is writing something beautiful

And impossible to explain with words

It is not an object of lust

That drives my fingers

Gently along hips

Around to the navel

I am simply reading, admiring

Slowly releasing and taking breath

Latent eruption

Shaking, thrusting

I'm across the room

Mesmorized by art

As somehow in the dark

A club has become a museum

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