Close in.
Be a cow:
cusp of a curve, small
green hill, cuds of clover,
(all you want), beauty in
the soft, the randy fur,
the hard silk of horns.
Beauty too in the brown
guileless eyes. Fit fingers
about the head, its hard square
horns, the kissable nubs,
the whiskered ears
& jaw stronger
than Rushmore’s Washington.
One look, touch, & no harm
could be sought, only, at most,
the mild whip of a tail
flicking at flies.
Hug the neck, arms like garlands
& it’s entering an aviary,
just chatter chirps, intelligent
feathers tapestried in winds
the color of a changing angel.
You as well, pastoral chameleon,
breathe the sensual range between
cool damp & tropic heat,
flesh showing the vulnerable bones
& muscles cloths might hide.
Those aren’t oceans,
Unless as imagined as so,
& intimacy finds others, licks, lives
the inner
while in some rooms buttons are boxes
& we say:
Mr. Executive, keep hands off.
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