Winsome Fire

The dance of silk over my hips
crossing the bridge in the
strenuous rain,
I strive for the dream damp
roof of my umbrella.
Slipping through a street
silver with desire,
in my slip, pink and traditional
as ballet or tongue,
I enjoy the voyeuristic windows
gawking at me,
vacant, mirroring.

I am slinking like a wisp of smoke
to a place I do not know,
an identity sculpted by a
winsome fire.


My eyes

Without permit.

Thrill shivers beneath my surface.


Light candy.


Stripping pink silhouette,

Like wallpaper,

Like lover.


My cloak is a cloud,

Dark, and rolling over me as a storm

over a fruitful plain.

Call me by my needs.


Can you tell where I’m going,

All finesse and shard?

The space between my thighs

A confection.