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Click hereTouched through the hay,
Studied
Along the ribs and hardened stomach,
Tensed with pride and fear.
Eyes flitting from the stars,
To eyes
To grass,
And never at the motion.
Searched along my skin,
Fingertips,
Man, more for his hands than groin.
More for his lips,
So much more,
For his touch on my cheeks and eyes
In the hay.
A soft gentle roll in the hay,
but it is barely spring.
The meadow grass is not yet grown,
and never mown.
Go give it a roll.
I like the way you've taken this subject--which could be stated pretty plainly--but given it a nice balance of clarity and delicacy--the image works well, but isn't overpowering--in my opinion, a very good thing! :)