Woman, in Her Nudity

 
 
what tongue would burn to cinders, following a
moist trail across your abdomen, or thighs, or
any section of your enticing fantasyscape…
 
your breasts my seeking hands would encircle,
tremulous hills that gaudy Rome may merely ponder,
capped as they are with extended cherry peaks,
a feast for every rabid wolf.
 
I travel a lusty journey from your dainty feet, your
ankles, alluring limbs, thick and supple thighs, and
I arrive at a juncture that may only be hailed as
the gates of heaven.
 
turn, Lady, turn upon your stomach, that my eyes
may quickly attack your glorious golden mounds,
melons of delight that I must rudely bite.
 
in my ardor and admiration, I surmise that your
entire domain, from fragranced hair to lotioned
heels, is sculpted art that has been fashioned by
a salacious and notorious goddess.
 
my fever rises, my passion ascends to explosive
nirvana, my sanity is dismissed,
 
and if in rage I impale you,
one hundred dreams would thus come true…