you reach for delight
in sour mash and shiraz
glassed up neat,
or with tight green leaves
that you lick sweet
on white paper,
in sparkling silver needles
that desire your blue pelt
and sweaty tempo runs
you reach –
for one helluva something
rather to shake you and
take you missing
from the throbbing pain
of stillness,
your fingers move firmly
downward on your
warm skintight thigh,
into a dark pleasurable
moist shadow,
beneath a sheer nylon bridge
where visceral odors rise
from your iris petal
textured juices confiscate
you - briefly
but joy can not be
stripped down
on any given sundown
you continue to search
for something,
for peace and delight
out there - the silence
always squints back
at the company
you keep.