"What a lovely word," she said,
            "explain it with a poem."

It's when your body bells inside.
It's when my cock or fingers seek
to plumb, to strum, your pleasure.
and you open wide, bear down,
and arch and twist and sing and sigh,
and open wider, clamp, bear down,
and sough in tones of purest joy,
to resonate, to round a perfect middle C;
it's when your cervix strains to peek
between your coral lips, your hips
round up, to rise, perhaps to fly.

It's when your susurrus of skin,
your suspirations, sobs and moans,
your whipping mane, your catch of breath,
your joy of life, your little death
surround me, sound me, pull me down,
it's when your sweat, your slipping wetness
drowns me, when your mouth announces,
when you come to know me, lose me,
hold me, throw me, when your breasts
catch fire, eyes roll up—
it's then, my sweet-struck, plangent love,
my belle, my angelus, my plangent puss,
it's then we rouse the countryside and ring!
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