Do you think you could retrieve that umbrella from the grasp of your legs?

Your able-body permits me,

but inner-workings differ in thought.

A temple you say,

body like a hallowed battle-axe, leading streamers gracefully across a storm,

a battlefield, in your poignant memory-

through puddles, dancing slowly

conservatively, as you would say.

And nude you were, when you greeted the spindles of the umbrella

you held to your chest,

and I gripped your thighs,

and you became reticent.

And I kissed your legs,

wandering,

straying from the grasp of allowance.

Softly healing the wounds I've instilled upon you

through pen and paper

bleeding the ink written in my letters

to you.

The drapes, they move for you,

writhe for you,

and the umbrella, lay abandoned

on the street,

spinning,

twirling,

hopelessly and violently tossed about the August air

not knowing what to do.