I had grazed her expression finely,
and there she stood,
at the jutting hip of the spouting fountain.
My hands had signaled keenly that the winter chill had well received her,
but I continued to dig those hollow dents,
which had firmly printed themselves a pattern on the tongue,
tasting hostile and sour of desire.
I consented the coarse, unclean nails that frayed deliciously--
at the winding trails of my fingers,
to navigate this burning, decadent valley of pastel flesh and eccentric
warmth,
which peeled itself before the melting embers of seconds.
Her nerves,
an uncorrupted frenzy in themselves,
teethed harshly at her stratum,
surfacing and peering from beneath the pores,
as just a moist, thick layer in deserved repose.
The daint buttons of her royal blue frock coat,
embroidered with the kindest of gold-bearing patterns,
unshackled their tiny heads,
permitting the hide of the coat to slither from her arms and,
if God hadn't forbidden it,
left me to ravage the plunder.

Here, looming at my very eye,
broadly interweaving the aged compact of lime field and forest,
pressed against the nearby backdrop,
was the corporeal, raw-boned canvas that I had longingly pined so
violently,
and had so cautiously crafted,
scene by pictured scene,
inch by livid inch,
in a shrouded membrane of my conscious.
Surely,
such an image before me could not be civil,
not even exceptionally so,
but I,
who was then the merest of all fools,
could not shield myself from this sound predicament.
No,
not even I,
of dwelling organs and tangible moral,
could not rationally turn a foul cheek.

So I guided her,
as a simpering, singing beacon,
to the smoking body of salt water that wound our surroundings pleasantly
without sight,
and as we crept lowly into the steaming, wavering sphere of liquid,
it patiently enveloped our figures.
Our arms intertwined and binded fittingly,
as the exotic, curling vines of a ginger brown wreathe,
and together,
like weaving statues of colorless steel,
we stood.
I held her kindly,
dimly marking my rightful territory with fervors of thirsty kisses,
which stung her icy silver lungs--almost too slightly,
along the folds of her cleavage.
I would spiral the path of my lip wherever it led,
to the sculpting of her inner thigh,
to the ravishing gaps that further departed her lower legs;
It was all too novel,
too unabashedly erotic to comprehend,
and within that sincere fabrication of intimacy beneath the gray murky
water,
not a weary soul,
not even the sloven clump of bush that gathered itself near the rounding
edges,
would ever wander onto suspicion.

Late sunup had quickly been due to retire,
and as we tilted our clouded foreheads upward,
tiringly so,
we maintained the structure we had so naturally produced,
the bending structure of wandering legs,
and twisting arms in unison.
The crème-colored moon,
a lonely, stalking vulture to the fate of an army of black-armored stars,
had drooped classically along the sky as a vast, silk canopy,
draping its humble sepia arms over our twisting necks,
like a dull, fluorescent cape upon our shoulders.
Her voice of milk and honey waned over my ear,
wafting and giving gently to the aurora,
and I realized that we had come to a deadlock.
The claps of thunder ruffled the fields of the heavens,
and I, alas,
with my stomach nothing but a fearing, stewing tank of expectancy,
faced the true beauty of thy Earth.
For braided between each stirring human masterpiece,
each celebrated clap of white morning thunder,
and each being that spoke,
was the decadent beauty of dear life,
and only this.

I had stood amazed at this enlightenment as she slipped from my side,
her bare, sodden body and moistened bosom,
now gleaming in the yellow tender-lapped jacket of the light.
Her eyes cradled my own,
my brimming pupils swaying in their leery rooms.
Drifting in a spineless crib of ebbing firelight,
I rendered myself,
soon afterward,
to the soundless and wordless behaviour I had learned once in my beloved
infancy;
It seemed as if,
in the warm, dwindling lap of the moment,
I was not badly spoken,
nor well-fitted for words.
Bowing her head gently towards me,
she had dressed herself and quietly drifted,
succumbing to the crooked vanilla path that lent no absolute light to aid
her.
And as I stood at that very point,
bobbing in the water that seized to give smoke any longer,
seeming a kingdom of shining pleasantries,
I carefully lolled,
no longer of any purpose,
but concerned in the unraveled event,
in the poise in which she had bravely spoken,
and within the true, riveting beauty of thy green sinister Earth.

I had recalled only so much of this event as I sat in a timid manner,
attempting to preserve my ramblings in the artificial brain of the machine.
My mind had leisured elsewhere,
preciously weightless and enraptured in the history of the evening,
and in the sheer, effortless facade she had displayed to me.
I thought of this,
my fingers dancing in remembrance of her throat,
lightly caroling,
her legs,
lazily humming at my rhythm,
and her tongue,
that slim, moist rose of a muscle,
which writhed and contracted in the bed of my mouth.
She,
this blessed creature that carried full blood and bone,
had woven herself as a lithe, trekking ribbon at my very hands,
consciously bathing deeply in coy all the while.

Yet,
there I sat in my disbelief,
in the auburn-stained chair that had grown beautifully and fondly elderly,
with the ticking, itching trails of my fingers blanketing the characters of
the typewriter.
I assumed it may have worn tedious of my tales,
but I continued to marvel in the thought,
gazing up to a new sun born from the motherly slate sky,
and to hands whose skin now wore like cracked, beaten leather.
Perhaps,
I feared to question,
the wordly creature that I had touched that night had been only imaginary;
But even if so,
it was certain that she had divinely charmed me,
possessed me,
only to leave my breath to waltz among the stalking fog,
my bones to wilt into brittle, bounding chapels,
and my moral to collapse to yellow scattered shells before me.
There I sat,
in the disbelief of my belief,
disabled from words,
disabled from understanding as I continued to follow the tips of my
fingers,
dousing myself, once again,
in the withered letters of the typewriter,
and in the flawless vision of that beautiful character,
that once stood by the jutting hip of the spouting fountain.
 
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