She tried to convince me
that she was the list of all things
the ontology

She placed the back of my head
against her breasts then kneaded the pain
from my shoulders

Her rhythms were micro
inside at times then upon the muscle
a consummate masseuse

She turned me folded around
hot moist wrappings
settled-in cool smooth sheets

She leaves a dulcet tone
rung before it’s struck
reverberating

still

Chagall 2015

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