It breathes, gently worn out, in a tangled vine
(Still damp with love), on the soft incline
Of white buttocks to rim of the pit.
Thin streams like rivers of milk; innocent
Tears, shed beneath hot breath that drives them down
Across small clots of rich soil, reddish brown,
Where they lose themselves in the dark descent...
My mouth always dribbles with its coupling force;
My soul, jealous of the body's intercourse,
Makes it tearful, wild necessity.
Ecstatic olive branch, the flute one blows,
The tube where heavenly praline flows,
Promised Land in sticky femininity.
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