Let her hair wind round your hands, ignore
    A while you were once yourself so leased,
    A regular gawker with mouth agog,
    Chewer down of a page a day, demanding

    His exact double: Esmeralda mirrors
    A troubled self-image, mocks him for having
    Dreamt of a run through his old ruined garden,
    To plunge again hands into gooseflesh folds,

    Lovelier than anyone alone can
    Contain, keep to the self too long in an
    Ache of the kind with two found lingering.
    You're the one with loins tingling into

    Showers lunges, your pores a musky sponge:
    Unctuous spumanti, potential urges
    Flesh to challenge, leaving all you
    Love undone for a new view less

    Hardened, gripped by the sultriest
    Blouse cuffs. Shivering, you pine on
    The bluff of her balustrade, round
    And up the stairs in hand as she
    Bares for you her fatuous halls.

Copyright © Mac Oliver, 2001.  All Rights Reserved.