the running tongue
whispers wordless
honey sweet beneath
the eaves of leaves and then
there comes a keening
sweetly moaning
moving lower lapping
fingers wrapping round
and pulling pulsing faster
warming wetly flowing
turning twisting sliding yearning
pressing forward downward
arching backward breathing
pressure freeing
seeking sighing
holding in and then
releasing
easing in with limbs entwining
softly singing shifting
shadows falling drifting
dreaming
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