Dear reader:
a picture of my lover.

She is lying flushed
in the red light of sun
against curtains
of fireworks
against eyelids.

Mary. She is squirming, my
lover.

One hand is cast overhead
(she does not move)
Except her lips, which tremble
and also her thighs, restively
moving under my hand.

Mary. How red her tangled hair
and also, at her hips.

She, fair, one hand tight in mine
(this artwork of sighs),
her belly is burning, ginger
has taken root
between her thighs
between her lips,
in this garden of noon
in this picture of mine.

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