Arrayed in Strange Powers

She dresses in milk for love, her mischief opaque in pale sunlight.
Delicados fill the ashtray, smoke haze in her room out of sorts.
The housecat claws the blossoms, long stems threatened.
She moans, "What falls, falls..."
Such a tongue between such petals...her thumb parts her lips.
The dark fresco, make believe, were her blind open eyes
shield green.
She strums herself, the jump rope walker,
touches herself in time, remembering the nursery in the rhythm,
"White is the satin, white is the silk.
White is the satin, white is the silk..."
Her hands stray beneath silk, where her fingers touch satin.
Languour given over to the rack and muscles in her womb.
Her ecstasy is her anguish...is the sieve of her soul,
in the cloth-sheathed stray ground of her falling flowers,
arrayed in strange powers,
while her ass...sweetens cream.