How You Make Love To Me
Your beauty is but a mask
A tired dress upon the floor
dogs mount each other
with more urgent honesty
with fewer lies of passion
you pant before coming
your screaming orgasm
a windmill open to the winds
one higher tolerance for the pain
of the unwoken less fortunate
red arrows like snakes shooting
out of your dark closing eyes.
© 2011 Rob Schackne
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