To That Paphian Girl of Mine (Painted like the Night)

                    Whispers of cinnamon paper her lips,
Thick walls of curtains thinning at their fringe
To let in his kiss, this census-taker
Making of a lisp such significant
Progress, twisting digits with tongue gripping
This immodest bowl of her soul’s hidden

          Concept from within, sighs lining its rim

                    As his glimpse slides with all that auspicious
Conviction making of vindictive first-
Frost’s freckling something almost innocent,
Stillborn eyes of ice unrepentant and
Tempestuous, when she cries her tears rip
From him his chill’s mask, a tragedian

          Casting off his past, a sad character

                    Acting as her crypt’s keeper, teaching her
As he tends to his task, digging deeper,
Pleasing her, dripping into honeycomb
Fibonacci sequences abuzz with
What song for so long shame kept closeted,
Sweat-stained secrets he teases to surface,

          Unsung regrets his heart’s pain translates in

                    Vain to dark lyrics a wounded spirit
Wets to fragrant mist, a tongue’s devilish
Dips she lets him slip past that mountainous
Pass of her thighs she splits, pulling him through
Clouds of doubt to silk veils her thirst demands
He slit, exchanging musk for incense, his

          Own filling her throat with language to which

                    Student and tutor both commit, mouths moved
To communicate devious truths and
Flesh with sinful ignorance of god’s law
To commingle, rebelling each against
Heaven’s prohibition of such pleasures
Until criminal instinct motivates

          Them to switch, this lesson imparting how

                    To free oneself of unwarranted guilt,
Serpentine she writhes as he sheds dead skin,
Stripping that libellous label judges
Incapable of giving it laid on
Him, proving them wrong as he gets her off,
Begging the question, “Could a fag do this‽”