Friday, March 30, 2012
There is a place
Under your skin
Where hides a pizzicato violin.
In your belly
Swims a cello;
I pull your hair and make a bow.
Inside your throat
A viola crawls;
The bow thrashes on palace walls.
White fingers wait
Behind taut lips;
They smell of freshly wetted whips.
The viola coils,
The cello stings,
And I am entangled in the strings
Of your pizzicato violin.
This poem appears by kind permission of the author.