I blew the dust of his black velvet wings…
He touched me firstly in the sunlight…
I touched him secondly on that moonlit night.
Thirdly; he then touched that red velvet velour.
It was then I'd lost count and we sang, amour…
amour… Amour…!
Like coupled moths we went passionately mad.
It was then I blew the dust of his black velvet wings...
O' then my heart and soul danced pattern-plaid.
In the weft of his dark pale limbs fittings
O' it was then I became his sun burning pleasure.
The moonlight I shivered longing lost to become her.
And then we rolled all day and night long—together.
poem by Mark Heathcote
Added by Poetry Lover
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