I'm hearing the strange music the Sun plays
between the leaves of the trees, it is noon
and the bugs are seething. I need to have her soon
or I will suffer madness. I need to lay
with her under the wheel. We are but clay
tethered to earth, we are but sensitive moons
orbiting something greater. I lose the spoon
that holds the watery syrup, I can't delay
in my swift thrust for her. I move my tongue
to say her name, I move my hands over the smooth
limitation of her body. I am speaking the hues
that disclose her shoulders, I'm moving both
my eyes about her forms. She is the unique
orchestra of day, time's obscurant clothing.
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