Persimmons
Harry Bauld
—for D. Schiller
I can't touch them, you said
at breakfast. So vaginal. This ripeness
is all and then some, too
organ-orange, too pistil. Once I heard
someone call female masturbation
painting the Georgia O'Keefe.
Here is what mornings come
down to, the play of old forms
upon us. No desire, no word,
no utensil or extremity dare touch
this calligraphic stem
or the split petal of spilled strokes
too sweet for anything but the weep
of their own holy spume.
Read more »
I can't touch them, you said
at breakfast. So vaginal. This ripeness
is all and then some, too
organ-orange, too pistil. Once I heard
someone call female masturbation
painting the Georgia O'Keefe.
Here is what mornings come
down to, the play of old forms
upon us. No desire, no word,
no utensil or extremity dare touch
this calligraphic stem
or the split petal of spilled strokes
too sweet for anything but the weep
of their own holy spume.