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Click herePoetry is the sculpture of real feelings.
—Yosano Akiko
i
Fresh from her bath,
wet as a willow sapling
in clean spring rain,
she flushes newly opened,
crimson rhododendron.
ii
Parted robe,
her breasts heavy as fruit,
blossom-delicate.
I slow my breathing, so
to not bruise her spread flesh.
iii
Tangled hair
flows over my chest, a stream,
mysterious
and artful, my senses drugged
as if by incense at her touch.