She can find me
in my poems,
When she craves
my erect pen
during her day
and in her nights
She may look for me
in the noir veil of the fog,
But I am on
some foreign shore
She is
dominated
by a powerful lust
That she can’t control
While she weeps
she is
Waiting
Pining
For him
His nocturnal return
His fingers
On her frail shoulders
Controlling her burn
feeling His heat in her
The thought of it
It erupts her
She reaches out
to grab me
My stem twisting
the bouquet
of my arousal
as I bend
her body
to mine
For my pleasure
our ataraxia
Intoxicating
Like this evening’s
wine
