Excess
Artful vessel is the hand:
encountering the world’s interstices,
plumbing imperative and mystery.
It is infant and mother in rapt communion,
a supplicant’s devotion distilled in a clasp,
lotus of ethereal apsara in bloom,
eclipse coaxed in a lover’s aching sweep.
So is it, how
we verge toward this threshold:
silken taction of entwined torsos,
your scapula’s hollow swaying
at the jut of my sternum,
your thigh draped over the arc of my knee,
my pelvis straining at your exposed orchid,
your hands in the sinews of my fingers;
my free hand brushes the elegant
mound of your hip,
cascades to your flower,
cups it, delicately,
then surely tautening
with the rush of blood into each dactyl,
writhes against the hot convolution,
determined, at once,
to devour
yet exalt it;
my lips surf the length of your nape,
swab the ridge of your ear’s crescents,
exhale warmth down its spiral,
nip the lobe;
my palm opens,
ring and middle digits
alight on your labia,
whisk it in retreats and advances,
alternations of rhythm and
disruption,
enchantment
and distress,
fretting the corona to swell;
fore and middle fingers
descend on vale of heat,
wax the corollar folds –
velvet friction in resolute adagietto,
quicken into allegretto,
menacing into broken rhythm,
unfurl in largo to swathe
your wound;
my lips depart your ear,
brush the round of your cheek,
to encounter your lips – vehement dalliance
of mind, breath and tongue.
Thumb and forefinger
clip
the bud,
pulsing the fleshen jewel,
relinquish into adamant grazes
then faint passes over the
dewy petals;
I crane toward your breast –
hallowed fruit from conception I know
and crave –
gnaw at its abundance,
swirl your areola,
gnash it
gently;
fore and middle fingers,
now,
plunge into your soppy fissure, sternly,
perilously,
urging toward ecstatic vexation,
impelling,
in each glide and thrust
into this moment –
sublime excruciation,
wakeful, rapturous temporality.
Photograph by Massimiliano Uccelletti (MaXu)
