Howard Firkin
Sometimes I walk your legs to where I sit
and let myself admire them, touch them, feel
the velvet inner thighs, let fingers steal
into the secret warmth of cunt and clit,
and pull your body closer to my face.
Sometimes I touch your fingers to your hips
and push your singlet up, and let them feel
the curve of breasts and chest and then reveal
your nipples hungering for tongue and lips.
My longing lengthens over time and space.

The violence of longing is self-crime
achieving nothing but the worst self-waste,
a sack of being, leaking shit and time,
and longing for your touch and smell and taste.