making love in the cottage,
all of the windows open,
the sun gentle on their
bodies as they frolicked,
lace curtains billowing
with every slow delicious
tortured breath. It was my job
to witness, to circle
the cottage, snaking through
lake weeds, and try not to spy
on their lascivious wrestling,
how they clutched and stroked
with ardent fire, how their
Innocent fingers and toes
splayed on the sheets.
I tapped my temple and
tried to bury myself
into the pleasures of
ontology, gratifications
of ruminating sophistries,
the still life of succulent
peaches and the sweet
indulgence of syntatic
sibilance. And when they
were finished they stood
on the porch all spent and
bent naked, satisfied
and leaning against serenity.
The one with lavender hair
grabbed her cheeks, still wet with
lotus-eating and love-tears --
as if to wipe away her joy --
and then she peeled back her skin,
slowly unzippering her flesh
to reveal, like a chrysalis,
herself, her stunning perfect
nakedness, and I stopped
to admire this miracle
of becoming, her shoulders
and breasts baring themselves
to the sun's sweetness, and
when she shrugged herself free
from this soul-slip, this enraptured
suit of honeysuckle
tongues, she invited the lake's
stray dog to munch on her penis,
to devour those wet petals
like a chewy caramel
while her strawberry-blonde
lover looked on, in mild
amusement, almost
amazement, smiling at me
as if I'd never know
their pork-pie serets,
their bald-faced lies and
surely their cocky lustre.
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