To thine own naked lunch be true.

Nonetheless,
she knows where from the prolonged gaze
resides.

She knows it's as central to life
as a breath of newborn air.

Yet, she confronts it,
she queries it.

Why must love
Be thunder and hunt?

Why can't it stretch it's limbs out,
languid in the diffused light?

Like morning awakening
to bluebell carpets in soft spring,

Where the revealed flesh can
unfadingly upon float.

When will it learn to sit with her,
quietly, and partake
of such nakedness together...?