She cannot be any more for me. Cannot touch, cannot see or know What it would mean to lie beside her. Below or above or inside her. I cannot kiss her skin enough To satisfy my tongue, At root, amid tonsil and gum. There is nothing between my legs To satisfy the ache I’ve beshouldered. Nor to give her what she wants. And yet to be the bearer of such lofty arms, I have not the strength To hold her to me, tight enough Nor strength to let her go. Therefore pianist or organist, No digits can so far reach To abrade this itch within me. To what worldly force there is to bray, No hips move expeditiously Enough to shake this wanting free Not rhetoric, charm nor Rationale Bestow words to dissuade my need. I have no arms to pull her closely, Nor shape to fit her skin.