inexplicable wondrality of such formal squares
summer night that starts at four
purple respectability of the swathing stripes
your hand inside me
and tickling, stamping, Rilking rhythms
on my back, the sweeping curve of my hips
Master of Rome, write your elegies anew!
Would you have? Would you, if
your ripturing eyes had been levelled to the sandstone statues of my world,
have made me your swarthy Charlotte,
treading Vulpian ripples upon your nascent hexametre
But sirens surround,
and I lay your dusty yellow covers over my breasts
while another tune is played inside me.