Alchemisland

She curtsies, not curtly

Lot’s wife lookback, confirms that I’m observing

The upward lurch of her shortest skirt, one deserving’s dessert.

The muck-wit church of the blurted affection

Determined me their prelate and rant selector.

The unrisen dough of my unpresenting gift

Fails to sustain me. Another secondhand gift

For the woman whose eligible digit I gilt.

A pleasant version of hurting

The clarity beyond the blur

Had to open my veins to make sure there wasn’t a train station

Hidden inside

The open curtains of her furtive preside

An inviting fireside, an ursine fur fox-pied by firelight

Her foxlike, reclined vulpinely, with pilum legs piled up high

Those legs, it seemed, of endless supply.

I imagined the urges in sensate bursts:

An unfastened clasp to a hearse black strap halfing a masterpiece;

A hair askance suggesting a word too scandalous to gasp;

The stubborn stuff at tube’s toes rushing to ruff, squirting

Like fist-smashed raspberries;

Probing the pole-rid urchin, Her quills undid a virgin.