ON THE HOUR
Paul Weinman
“Time for digits to do slow dance,”
she says as she pushes sodden sheets
pushes them grey to where skin shines
where little beads of sap spread
as my fingertips start doing easy things.
“Nibble my petals as they unfurl.”
And my lips make murmurings
their slit swelling and receding
with its ropy lips nipping flesh
mushing nipples’ skin
with talk doing two-step.
