A thousand times I've kissed my lover's shoulders,
beginning another morning's exploration,
softly, fearing their mottled decoration
blown by breath would stipple the sheets that hold us.
Seurat could not achieve such composition;
the steadiest hand would falter perfecting the art
of capturing constellations of tawny stars,
mastering erotica through pointillism.
Likewise, I can't achieve with a simple kiss
the perfect theft, though still I persevere,
a fool to expect such stolen souvenirs
to dapple, variegate or fleck my lips.
Such dreams of spoils awake to thoughts of sex,
and returning I haunt the hollow of her neck.
If you have any comments on this poem, Brett Evans would be pleased to hear them.