May You Be Happy This Morning, Worn Traces!
How many a day, a night I'd spend
with a woman, stark as a statue outlined,
her face aglow as she turns to her mate
like softly radiant candle light;
her breast like the flare of a generous fire
by chilled men lit in the desert at night
in the wind come roving across the hills,
north, south, at the caravan staging posts.
Clear-cheeked, in her teens, so playful yet
that she makes me forget my clothes when I leave;
with rounds like the dunes that as children we loved
to tread for their smooth and velvety touch.
When her lover strips her, wanting all,
she leans to him lightly, holding back;
slim at the waist and firm as she twists
with quickening breath from intoxicant lips.
