the limestone bedroom

I pine for that old-time paradigm
of a woman, slung over shoulders for fun
in caves, no pressing need to bathe,
and no laboratory necessary
or such sludge spent creating her scent.
My body begs me let hers sweat –
‘It’s salt she leaks, though so strangely sweet!’
I think, watching her damp chest sink
and surface, glistening – listening
for the wheeze of disease in her breath
as sorted from grotesque cries of pleasu– protest.
It’s unfair but true that my holding of you
right now suggests, and I sorely confess,
that you exist as common flesh – prepared fresh
for eyes and thighs, for fingertips and lips.