A breath withheld
An oyster shelled
A look to blush the moon

LeMotagne rasps
A bra unclasps
The bedclothes a typhoon

A deep mouth wet
A form beset
By nibbles, licks and bites

A mountain climbed
Two bodies rhymed
In Cupid’s sweet delights

A fever breaks
A hunger slakes
A spine is arched to sky

And what belongs
Is never wrong
And lovers don’t ask why.

Bryson Thomas