As for the poem, easily smeared, it crawled and crawled up the valley. It conquered the plains open under her throat. Then, the offensive! A quick cav...lcade around made it a collar of words, a black river that matched any a jeweller.It kept climbing. The best poem I had ever written. In laces swirling around her neck, reaching and conquering her chin and cheeks. Reading only of lust and passion. I called her “ma douce” by her breasts, “mon hétaïre” by her throat. And I will swear, by the way. *...just as much as I am right now, seeking my reflection in your eyes, thus forcing myself to look at you. If I didn't, you would notice my change of demeanor—if you haven't long ago, that is. Yet I just know you’ll notice it just as much in my piercing glare that keeps jumping between your pupils, unable to decide onto which to drop anchor.My thoughts dawdle on this marine metaphor I already uttered...*...as she and I lay there, panting in the afterglow, her head resting on my chest, finger. More

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