4. YOUR EYES (ENNUI)
Your eyes are not on fire;
you sit with lyre in lap
leaning against the window
where evening's sun nectars
deepen, making you drunker;
My eyes chance to caress
your white thighs, soft breast,
your belly all tawny
and honeyed in that opiate light.
Your-eyes are lustrous,
half-closed;
No there is nothing to exchange
more reddish than glances;
And so will you remain,
lazy and reclining between
amber curtains, panes of glass.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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