Buttered Curls
Milk curls of frigid butter saucered,
dished and melting in sun drench.
She’s frisking past in swishing skirt
that brushes your chair, fusses your hair
putting the mango, cubing the melon,
weighing with cucumber cool hands,
her measured portions to tantalize
and there’s just a sparkle in her eyes.
Oh, it stirs you and you are aware
of what is shouldn’t and seldom there.
Later will come in night’s silent sighs,
her salad tossed, her noiseless cries,
bring before your mind image sharp,
hot sauce to sip, keen scissors part,
in buttered curls, in oils, in dressing,
perforating thin tissued paper skin,
be first into her light heart entering.
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