Quarry

Predator, you scent prey,
doe-eyed quarry strolling meditatively,
musing upon the cud of her thoughts
Prowling behind, your covetous eyes follow
the languid shift of muscles under skin
the color of milky quartz, lucent
within the praying hunter's reach
Your fingers curl, longing to reap a harvest
of agonized cries and pleasured moans
To draw nourishment from the flesh
of the doe-eyed one whose heart
resembles uncut stone,
If you can

Sculptor, you surely pray,
you could make of your cock a chisel
the hammer of your body pounds against
Splitting stone from the doe-eyed quarry
walls pitted with scars from picks and rails
Acts of violence necessary to elevate
the heart of stone, inviolate
to the rim, within the preying artist's reach
Your fingers curl 'round rasp and burr
eager to harvest dust and chips
To carve your dream from the living flesh
of the uncut stone,
If you can

Lover, preying, praying
your fingers explore the quarry's mossy ledge
seeking the shaded twilight depths
of the woman-shaped canyon
flooded with nectar for which you thirst
Soul saturated with esurience,
tongue craving the taste of sunbeams enfleshed
Will you assault it with your tools, attempt
to conquer and shape the stone like so much clay
Or will you drive, sleek and fine,
into the quarry pond, hoping to surface,
spent, upon the shore of your desire,
If you can