His tongue
moves
wet and slow
as a snail

from the back
of her bent knee,
up her thigh,
to the place

she'd ***
if he got there
too soon.
He wants to

awake her soul;
wants to
open her up
like budding flower

in spring
and make her
being sing.
She wants to say:

more, more, more,
but all she can do
is open her mouth
and release

a groan or moan,
an utter
of in-distinctive words
fluttering out

from between
hot lips
like free,
random birds.