is after all. All we’ve ever done
for centuries - except write them - but what
a strange thing it is, after all, rose cheeks and sun-
hair and lips, and underarms, and that little gut
I love to nuzzle on, soft underbelly - oops -
that wasn’t what I meant to talk about;
ever since handkerchiefs fell, and hoop-
skirts around ankles swirled
and smiled, lovers have dreamed their loves upon
the pages, courted and schemed and twirled
And styled, hoping that once they’d unfurled their down-
deep longing, they would have their prize -
not the songs of love, but love beneath disguise.
