Lines,
drift lines,
of creme-filled illusion,
makeup painted into mask,
a faint resemblance,

come of age,
the olive mercy
kiss-and-touch
of hips enjoined,
in dreamy swagger
shear and fray
her masculines,
on heavy womb, on sleeping belly,
wade inside
this liquid flesh,

and draw each breath
through silt fawned nipple,
pink lolling tongues
on blood rich grain,
delights that ease
the sensuous ardor
sashay this soul and heart
to sleep.

©David Sutherland