Your soft moves in every word
And the million subtleties of your smile
An undiscovered science of silence
A linguistics of movements and gestures

Then the foreign language of that dress
And its silent dialog with your curves
An unknown tongue flowing over you
In fragments and run-on sentences

I try to understand, but I’m stuck on the surface
Tracing the hems of your dress with heavy eyes
Thoughts of you slowly sliding out of either end
Or of slowly sliding underneath

Your language of grace betrays my best effort
To remain innocent, quiet, and disengaged
I am a plaything for whatever your eyes say
And a slave to any hint beyond them

Further Posting:

• Peter Lunenfeld: Critic as Curator
• Almost Full
• war@33.3: The Postmodern Turn in the Commodification of Music