The grip was practiced and secure,
an ambience of her humid heat,
she'd tamed a wandering troubadour
and found this luxury retreat.
She liked him passive and supine,
no selfish touches to confuse.
Tall candles and red summerwine,
all conscious thoughts were just a ruse.
He'd liken it, she knew his mind,
to a long piston on the move
tied to a spring that would unwind,
while tracking neatly in its groove.
Men were soo technical, of course
all wheels and bearings, bolts and nuts,
she felt the life blood of a horse
yet always clasped their silly butts.
She liked explosions, always had.
Small tremors, building to a wave,
volcanoes always scare a lad
and swallows represent the brave.
Convulsions was the word she used,
a sudden hint of laundry bleach,
a tiny smile as if amused
and stirrings in her private peach.
' You DO? ' He was in shock and awe,
she said 'I thought it was the thing! '
Two bodies, hot and in the raw,
an eros arrow, would it sting?
A symbolism then descends,
embraces hot and tender skin.
Inhaling fragrance it suspends
all time and reason, deep within.
Herbert Nehrlich
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/she-does/
