POEM: A Purse.

Around your love’s insatiable essence—
A knot like the reins of a cart,
Purse your lips with fragrance,
Playing guard to the temple of your light, which
Parting, glorious; bathes a bazaar upon your frame.
The light shines with a barbarous glow—
Shading both halves of a miracle;
scarlet Matroyska doll lips—
With such ethereal division,
As in consternations:
You’re nature’s original sin.
Transcendent, amorous— alive;
Your freshness prevails; lives in your purse,
where with each lisp, the door hinges, pneumatically,
To the sweet scented temple of life—

Parted, the purse leads upon a cathedral
(A dome of worship)
Scarlet cloves— Naturally spiced,
Welcoming the intrusion of the blind hooded pilgrim
The droplets bear witness—
Aromatic facades, and glee overwhelming:
I stand bare of vision, eye-sorely full of image
The hands eager— twitch with parting the purse;
Halting the world’s essence in a wet glisten—
As if a trencher be its pedestal
And all the goodness of the world
Wells up to the touch,

Your loftier lips twitch then part,
And a moanful sigh sings the praises
Of fleshy intercourse bearing fruitage—
A gasp—deep and drowning—
A pleasure betrodden of the conjugating spark—
The diminutive fire lacing the world.

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