breasts

The birth of the curve.
They rise and fall while they rise and call the touch to their diving
lines.
A soft skin quiver, a bounce- a shiver.
Tender, tinder dry to light the eye and draw the fire.

That weight of form in the hand.
Lifted, cup to lip, from that landscape, the round and round of
them.
Treats for the peeking, peaks for the tweaking,
A trough for the face, a place that can only inspire.

And there, self-raising flowers.
Rising to the heat and the beat of the breath from above and
below.
Nibbles in ripples are served.
Bracing brown buds frame the flames either side of desire.