Poetry 'n Prose

There Is An Art To Disrobing

There is an art to disrobing,
It starts with the outer wear
The shedding of coats
Coming in from the rain
Shirts falls off as if disintegrating
Lying on her side, she faces me
Her left breast flops over my head
Lost in a cloud of flesh
Salty on my tongue
Her hand on the small of my back
Her knee stirring into me
Sure, exact strokes
Under her shirt
The smooth curve of her hip
The hands are free to roam
I chose the navel where I find
The scent of jasmine
The thin line of hair leading down
Where white cotton lies wet in wait
Wondering how and when
This layer will be shed.

By 67paintings

A dialectical site of poetry, painting and the odd musical excursion into the unknown.

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