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,
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
The drapes, they move for you,
writhe for you,
and the umbrella, lay abandoned
on the street,
hopelessly and violently tossed about the August air
not knowing what to do.