In turns we caress by Terry Cummings

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In your slender arc
I flee to your hips
And beg you

Gentle rose
Morning moistened
Petals unfurled
In forgiveness

Parted grass
Revealing my path
My pilgrimage
Under duress
I try not to run

And here is creation
This is the end
The answer
The beginning

We could never understand
Its intent, its tongue

So we sigh

And in turns we caress