lust

He must have been very hormonal, in the masculine sense, the week he wrote the previous poem and this one. Playful and, yet, with a hint of danger.

lust

did you know
when you put that denim skirt on
how many eyes would bend?
how many pulses would react
in strangers who'd pretend

to be looking elsewhere when you turned
and thought you'd caught their eye
serve surrogate for a lust to sate
kindled by glimpse of thigh.

long legs that beg to find a peg
to fulcrum at the point
where violets bloom and heartbeats zoom
when lever'd to the joint.

the way you walk, the way you smile,
all catch a vagrant whim
to whisper words that end denial
on linen, when lights dim.

and yet you walk on by, unturned,
untouched by blooded fire,
striking sparks and yet unburned.
sweet lady of desire.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.