Author Information
HB Sauce
Every time
I see you in the flesh,
it grows: my yen, desire,
just to see you–in the flesh!
With every strand pulled back so tightly,
you walk the floor zipped-up (though sprightly);
yet what you choose
to share, my muse,
serves only to delight me. . .
Cinnamon:
the colour of your skin;
the coating for a body
ripe for tasting, fit for sin.
And, if you’ll forgive my being so brusque,
I want to know you–from brow to bust;
from fine-arched lips
to outcurved hips;
every luscious inch of dusk . . .
Streaks of black:
let them flow down your face,
caress your sunkissed shoulders,
like raven tendrils of lace.
Converse with me through those midnight eyes,
that rims a-blushing just can’t disguise.
La petite mort:
what I yearn for,
clasped between your sunset thighs . . .
Exposure
rates not for me as vice;
the image proves ... affirming:
that of your hidden spice . . .
Your form laid bare, shorn of all fetter?
I fail to envision better . . .
. . . à part un soir
seul avec toi,
inscribed on my French letter . . .
(If I engaged your trembling south,
would you requite–with yearning mouth?)
To breathe within . . .
To catch your scent . . .
To writhe with you
till we lie spent . . .
Your breasts, your neck,
your face–besprent! . . .
. . . now that I’d call
time well-misspent!
Four letters merged
sum up the thrust,
the first and last
being linked by–us!
