Sometimes, s/he wears nothing, my muse,
though often I have to strip garments in my mind
slide off velvet or silk, satin or leather
take off a garter, undo one or two laces
roll down straps, or maybe suspenders.
My muse is stone-hard, marble-columned,
though not Doric, Ionic, Corinthian, or Tuscan
definitely not fluted, though perhaps
Greek Erectheum, if you know what I mean.
The, ummm, ornaments invite my fingertips and lips.
Or possessing sodden flowing creases,
making me tongue-tied - of words, not caresses.
Soft and yielding, responsive, swelling,
an invitation to all my senses, though scent
touch and taste are so much more important than vision.
My muse, s/he teases, and leaves me aching.