1.

A coffee-colored woman with a shapely rump kneels.

Pale hemispheres loom over a supine man.

He doesn't look like you. He is you, in a sense.

No one gets enough for very long.

 
White half-globes hang over a man lying on his back.

Their dark ends are moist and tender as plum guts.

Satisfaction is temporary.

The possibility of dreaming and daydreaming awakens.

Illusory nurture tempts like oasis fruit.

She's far too young to be your mother, but not too young.

The possibility of dreaming and daydreaming awakens.

For a few minutes she's as lovely as an orchid.

Too young to be your mother, she's not much younger than you.

Get into bed with her. The comforter's turned down.

For awhile she will fill you with an unfathomable hunger.

If this is too specific, imagine a man.

2.

The waiting bed is warm, the prospect inviting.

Fantasize an empty landscape, one without even you.

If your imagination balks at my dreams, dream freely.

All her inward tensions almost hide behind her beauty.

Look out over whatever soulless vacancy presents itself:

Nature in its raw nakedness, pure wind-driven snow.

She's busy with her work, her career, and can't relax.

But she doesn't have to. Maybe it's just a hobby.

See a specific cornfield staked with snowfence drifted with snow dunes.

You lust for particulars, parts opening just for you.

It's impossible unless she wants you. Or pretends to.

This is real life, as real as it gets, in your mind.

Lust is both particular and general: needle and wave.

You can be the sheriff, the outlaw, wind, water, horses.

How can you not believe in the raging body-mind?

In the icebox the iceberg has gone limp, needs ice water.

3.

You oscillate rapidly among roles, acting in a series and watching them.

If a thought were a copulating couple on a lazy susan,

in the refrigerator, lettuce has wilted beyond rejuvenation.

Rose petals parted by a smooth nailed finger reveal clear beads of dew.

If you could look at desire as an ldea on a bed

you could look at it from nearly every direction.

Gluey tidbits of pink and auburn meat meet and part.

There are always angles from which nothing shows.

 
Flying, you could shift your perspective an infinite number of times.

You can't of course, see it from inside, looking away.

Something always hides.

If you could get inside, you might look out at you.

 
The inside of the observed is difficult--impossible.

She looks at you with a longing you wish you understood.

If you could slide outside yourself, you might look in at you.

Lights full on, cameras rolling, lovers hot, a shade falls.

4.

Her hungry look worries you, coming at you.

It's a real longing and, after a fashion, it's for you.

In the most complete illumination, some bright thing remains dark.

Desire itself is pretty simple. A veil may heighten it.

Clearly she yearns for someone she thinks may be you.

The you she wants is not exactly who you are.

Hunger is simple. Delay heightens it.

You can't explain, you think it's love. But who?

You don't know who you are for her to want.

A lusty slut, she sees you through the veil of romance.

What has love got to do with whom?

The color and shape of the figure matter almost not at all.

 
Not her hunger but her longing penetrates you.

A metaphor for you, the next-best man is unlike you.

The important illusion is that the illusion is pleasing.

A flesh-colored woman curved like a heart genuflects.