Erotic PoetryEpiphanyIt could hit you in a garden
where your wife's cousin Barbara
bends over some chrysanthemums
and in the denim drawn tight
over her long, settled thighs
you see lizard-skin boots,
a little rat-tail switch
clutched in her fist like a rose,
and her tongue quick and raw
as a snake's slide through grass.
None of which ever shows—
has ever shown, ever shone
—in the sweet brown teacakes
of her cozening eyes.
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