Wednesday, July 12, 2017

Let us describe the aesthetic, love.
Your hands, wrists, waist—

the smooth S
ribbon curl of silver

locks holding
my finger like a child.

Or that curved hip,
a gentle slope sprouting legs

the contours staring me down
close range

the length of  the couch.
Dysphoria only enters

the frame
when blinds

close, drapery falls.
Then you must love the body.

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