The Vitruvean Man

Leonardo drew the Vitruvean Man incompletely.
Instead of a soft phallus hanging down,
he should have drawn a magnificent staff, pointing up.
Far more useful as a measure, far more useful as a man.

On such a drawing, one could circumscribe diagonals, pivots,
the centre of circles, the whole point of zero, the whole point of one.

There is a smaller pivot, a nub, around which
a woman revolves, especially when my tongue
is upon it, pointed and twirling, swirling,
or flat like a broad brush, licking up the wet juice from below.

I have a yen for a ¥, that opening up, that grail of a cup,
that place from which honey drops down.
That quick divide, that split, that crease,
the half moon circumference, it's mine.

Around the back I find the round orbs of two moons,
with a penumbral place in between.
There's a solstice, a moon shadow,
my special dark place, my tongue to penetrate thickly.

On hands and knees, she offers herself up,
pushes back, pushes up, her incarnadine peach to be eaten.
Sweet juice spreads on my lips, fills my mouth, and I swallow.

In a bed in a cave under covers, I can explore.
It's done in darkness, there's perfume to guide me,
limbs to follow, curves to follow round.

There's a spiral in a maze in a circle,
and a silver cord wrapped around my finger.
I'm not given a choice, I don't want one.
The chord tugs, she's singing my name and I'm drowning.
I'll swim when I want to, until then I'll float.

Up in the sky, I'm flying!