Still these small events of love continue burning.
I want to tell you that today I pruned my plum;
(in my mind another field of dreams keeps churning)
If you’re brave enough to wax it, he will come.
He will come! Oh I remember! How could I forget
the swift effusions of delight that always followed
the satisfaction on his face so hot and wet
when he looked down and saw that I had swallowed?
Such tawdry instances of our rapturous glee
should perhaps be saved from public view,
but what the hell, each we are the fruit of its debris,
and surely sex, impure tradition, can still renew.
Why should poems be such a courteous forum
when life is made of lapses in decorum?
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