SMOOTH

It is a man who turns
his breast to me, not pure.

It is a song, a whispering
song
sweet
until I open its envelope
inside
the smooth milk
which left his
hand.
I resealed it, careful
so the
milk
could not drip out

I took a sandwich of honey
and butter
to Daye's Park
I lie there, each blade of grass
tickling my skin

In my mind I
whisper that song,
the song in the envelope
which sits like milk
smooth
not pure