The Nacreous Oughts

04 August 2008


Svelte with eventual sex, who could help
but gorge herself on low violet leaning everywhere?

The shine and shifting slate of the sky murmurs
its irresistible confession: I am more than blue

if you are the violent imprint. I am swollen,
vexed endlessly and only
finite against your bodies.

This slim stalk of silhouette slides via nimbus
down the eyelights without a skirmish.
Glossy with sly undoing, blisterlike.

We are disheveled, though too
skeptical to abandon our dimpled limbs

and fill the insides of slips with mere
threat and strop of thunderpeal.

We toss freely with fever this mirror
desilvered. And break into rain upon
finding such umber yielding of frost to febris.

This strumpet muscle under your breast describing
you minutely, Volupt, volupt.

--Brenda Shaughnessy

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