20190712.0430

The old writer writes
Of a leek or a loaf of bread
In terms that titillate
Pulled upon by dirty hands for people's mouths
A boneless thing that rises when hands work on it
And always are readers on first reading
Surprised or scandalized
That old pen scrawlings would leave such traces
As some might call stains
However fair the hand
That readers read as they do is a failure of recognition
Why would not those who came before
Have minds as dirty as those who followed them?
We would not have been here else
And those who will follow us
Will not marvel that we act so
That what we write reads as so much smut
Cloaked in fairer words
Or cloaking fairer ideas
But will rather marvel
That we do so little with it
Letting it flop out idly
And not dressing it up
We do not tease as much
And the pleasure is reduced
If more rapidly reached
But not all partners prefer such speed