From whom emanate
And life, and little death.
But bones cannot disseminate
They, too, must have their flesh.
So, fingers, over hillock glide;
Your charms and everything inside.
You needle-hold and scratch, caress,
Tapering off to tenderness.
-Homage to My Hands
I would love to see the erotically tinged poetry of other group members, posted as a reply to this if 't is most expedient.