Pearl oil drips
a necklace about the pillow,
lace tat, fringed lavender,
purely sound, the rustle
of starched, ancient,

ivory-white
sheets, crisply settling in
to form to bodies, too hot
to be contained ‘neath coverlets,
or anything doily.

Taut, crimson nipples,
rouged like the peaks of Charlotte Rouse,
whipped cream, angel cake,
engorged obscene, delightfully rubbery
pliant, pulls at the overtones,
the sparkles, humming bees,
bullets along the loin,
palms rubbing along the bodyline.

Quantum of delight, mass and mount,
break the outer ring,
awestruck in orbit.

Riding the curl,
on the inside of the wave,
anticipating the crest,

glimpsing it pass,
to receding echo,

perpetual motion,
in perpetuity,
not of our own making.

Heavy-headed, dream state sedate,
I am color, bone:
sentience.

A pensive
entity breathes heavy,
inhales deeply,
tropical musk,
new-found Eden,
soporific, entranced.

I am too heavy
in this alien gravity;

I bounce, bound in slow ponderous moonbeams,
my voice octaves lower,
words on long sine curves
enunciate at a rate of one per lifetime.

So much to say,
when a paragraph of expression
takes an eon
to convey.

So instead I brush
soft S curls
from your brow
and ponder the perfection
of your temple,

the fine matte of your hair,
in combed sweeps back,
feeling the pulses there,

your beat, your blood,
your primal rush,
billions of years old,
yet seconds fresh,

smelling like ocean, and gulls,
rich in alga and loam,
a lode of embraceable creation,
wound up there in taffeta.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013