Tiger Dance

She is the languid, languorous
disease of the sun, flower
of his passion, hint
of his corruption among shadows.

He comes to her disguised
as her double, only larger,
more impossibly brutal-beautiful—
his face a Paleolithic sun shower.

She in turn turns tiger lily,
all smiles and pussycat frailty
shivery under his touch—
needier, whorier

than his lewdest imaginings—
his great winking anus
laughing at the winking
gay forest above them.

This is he who has hugged
and scarred the trees
as his vassals, whose gape
at her nape is the very vault of heaven.

This is she
who releases him,
brings on the darkness,
leaves him free again to love nothing.