He thinks she must taste
Like lemon peel and whipping cream,
Must be, skin, plumsoft and raindewed.
Must be glossy,
As dampened trodden-on yellow leaves.

Fitted for a glass of wine
And tongue lips slow motion vibrate
Resonate with the bitter mull.

The woman mindlessly fingers
The marks of age on the oaken
Table. Claw foot. Barefoot.
Arched toes and back, bubbling
The wine on her tongue
Feel its taste.

He wishes those lips
Must be catching sweetness
In the moistened ravines.
He wishes the soles of her
Vulnerable toes, and
Tastes lemons in his cheeks.