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May. All that may move moves out of the framed, no -- frozen still life
In the museum of memory -- away from tarnish. The picture
Thaws spilling a landscape. Air swarms, teems -- interlaced, pierced, thickened,
Strung, bound, pinned, saturated with brisk scud, rush, flutter, quest, quiver,
Moans, warbles, buzz, whistle, odor, urge, fever, while in silence,
Roots slide through soil, in secret, slowly, slinking, so that their flowers
Could bare flesh for copulation -- with wombs and phalli lustful,
Blameless, ejaculating openly, in color, and coupling
In crowds, with their dissipated aroma, no -- narcotic.
Wrinkled and rough, centennial trees make love to each other -- distant,
Dreaming of a touch, and touching themselves, their touch exalted,
Languid, persistent -- masturbating with the wind, their sperm tickling,
Wandering and lying everywhere. Birds are pairing, singing
Lewdly of how they pair, and fondling with their sound not just partners
But everyone who can hear -- erotizing every finger,
Feather, claw, beak, paw, hair, straw, tendril -- in the art of arousal.
Ladybirds are coupling more than a thousand times a day, their
Tiny and fragile bodies throbbing in long orgasms, forgetting
To eat raw from flowers, fly and exist. While flowers languish
For penetration. All -- that may -- remain in erotogenic
Zones -- under fur, feathers, scales, bark, fluff, skin -- caressing, stroking,
Rubbing each other, licking, staring, in the way of paired flowers,
In each other’s eyes which open their petals at May mornings.
May is a plenum versed in couples, in a beat of their striking
Hips. May won’t allow me in
For I failed to rhyme your body --
In the museum, in a frame and with a label,
In tarnish...
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