Among the piqued daffodils
my body of silk.
Nothing has touched me
but a phantom with a ribbon.
The friction of lace on my
lowest, basest secret.
The clouds are pearlesque,
my skin a pearl casing I wear
because elegance is getting
cheap as talk.
Born from my animal mind,
her breath cascades
over my breasts.
Her hands peel the lace sweetly,
sweaty.
Miniature Moon 