SPRING DEW
The lotion must have landed coldly
on your wistful lids
How my fingers want to crawl on you
like satin arachnids
but I felt the twitch in your reflex
and now I must confirm
the report that what I triggered
was a shiver not a squirm
for you shiver when fixated
and you squirm under duress
I can't halt the moisturizing process
after an undress
but your points of no return
uproot like tickled wisdom teeth
so I feel on, praying for the lotion
to be laced with drops of Lethe
Bear a cheekbone and a temple
I appeal inwardly
The anointment to your face
shall be delivered tenderly
Only fingertips, say one or two,
apply to the attention
granted to the pale pillow
of your neck before the tension
is spread out to the perimeters
of my unfurling hand
for ascension to the broader
reaches of your promised land
An ascension physically inverted
to enlighten to the south
cuing me to multitask
with rubbing hand and kissing mouth
Mortal are the goosebumps
anticipating application
of the oil that will lubricate
your cylinders for activation
Brittle feet will culminate
the ceremony of your glisten
and our centers will align
and for a sound of sorts I'll listen
Written by Steven Fortune, first posted to the People's Poetry Bookshelf on 25th April 2013.
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