A Flute Song for Pan

Milky buns under black leggings,
lipped off and bouncing free
like the kiss of sea foam
on parched, cracked lips

Fog swirls among the bases of the pines
low bird calls and crushing of brush
far up the mountain
harried breaths among
the twisting pathways full of granite
and needle-sharp stems of flowers

In the palace gardens,
the Asian women in their
shimmering tunics sit cross-legged,
the jutting phallus of the
Persian shāh shared between
their lips like exotic wine
with hints of cinnamon.

Shaking their milk duds,
his hips work into a frenzied
rhythm for the liquid gush
and dabbling of their
faces and skin

Icy blue flame cascading over cracks of magma and coal-colored rock

Among the grass off the trail,
she works her throat over
his spear with its urgency,
her hair like a spider's web,
her butt in the air to the
sight of prancing monkeys

Nuzzling for incense among her clefts and curves

Pink-lined tents for a fair
sand kicked up among
the crowding bodies
the molded frame of a
pink lamborghini
like the the pert jutting nipples
of the viper eyed lass

Sight unseen
Lips over a raspberry
Pitter-patter of bare feet on
the ash of a fire-pit
Her turquoise and pink skirt
kissed by the sand's rough irritation

Her whispers to me
under torches
people searching for us
calling our names
the flame and smoke
shaping the moving figures
into strange postures
like the reflections
off water

The lip of her dress garlanding
the swollen tendrils of ferns,
she teethes a fig between her
teeth, plucking it and nuzzling
her nose into orange blossom
Her gleaming naked body
leaning back against the baking
granite wall