If you were there
Within the flair
Of arms that I project
Within my stare
And lay upon the surface
Of caresses
   faded into 
      forms
And basted in the 
Storm of lust and
Plucked from liquid 
   canyons
      open to 
         adventures
Dripping
   from the fertile
      infant
         swarm

Drop the lid 
Of chastity
And sing the song of 
Fashion
   fitted to the breast of
      whittled
         sculptures
Spread upon the altar
Filled with
   molded
      rhapsody

(c) 1996 James Oliver Smith, Jr