Your nakedness my native ground,a wild forgotten garden gone to seed,your wheaten undulations, mountains rilledto breasts of brown by slow dark-silted time.
Ancient disciplines of listening trilledyour secret valleys with lark song, inlaideach poppy and pale iris with ruby and jadechiaroscuro, blossoms for each weed.As minstrel, I would amber you in sound.
Were I a poet I would turn you on
a rhythmic lathe to rhyme.An artist, I would layer your dark skiesoutrageously in tints of amaranth and fuchsia,brush the chalcedony ocean of your thighs.
Were I a virtuoso I would lean
your body’s umber swollen cello,
balanced on one foot, against mine
to hear your hollows resonate, and strum
your tautest string like this,
then pluck some lower, darker tone...
But I’m a lover, glutted by minutia.I glory in you dust, your fallowlandscape of half-opened lips, your softest loam,the raindrop of your kiss.