I am a suggestion
between workings of brain, the solid ridge
of spine ― a curvature
kin to *******, hip, *****.

Almost touchable,
I tender flesh, still, in old acquaintances
who might have been
something more.

To a subtle fingertip
my nap is velvet ― in some strangers
I am a lily’s stem
geisha-cool.

I glow under moons
beneath the wedge-dark, am back door to eyes ―
those hogs of the bone-glint,
of the brink of sharing.

Eased aside, locks
reveal me: curtain raised on my milky
opening night ― or slightly bowed,
offered to the axe.

Mario Petrucci from *love sends itself flowers