Monday, February 27, 2012

HER SOFT CLOTH (The Lady At Town Hall)

She is quite in the morning Free pure, untouched
Her lesions dump from earth’s exudate
She is wet inside her crevices
Cool like morning in July
Her numerous thighs not yet bruised
The strong fingers that love to stroke her grooves
Are still working on soft blankets
Turning a softer cheek love, gentleness and soft speech
When they come to her they are free men
Ready to rose her with chit chat
Aggression arrogance and pride short words knotted on long verbs
Slapping her thousand thighs
Playing game making a thousand moves on her
Talking that man talk right in front of her
In front of them she is patient She is relentless,
She takes in all they bring to her; the dirt and the clean cloth
These men are not shy before her
Grey haired,
Short limbs lovers, beaters and youngsters,
All over her like bees on honey comb
Exploring her honey combs
She has seen morning with them She has seen daylight with them
Only night keeps her safe
Only rain frees her from them
And the winds give back what she had lost; her soft cloth

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