The stamen coming out
of the dark cleft, trembling
with pale yellow pollen,
is the tongue,
the tongue of the silky
white mouth waiting
to be kissed,
to be blessed
by another tongue exploring,
twining and twisting,
dropping its pollen
into the orifice
aching to be filled.But there is no other.
The lily languishes,
beaten by the rain
in its corner by the shed,
unable to hide its
radiant white glow
against the ash-green
of the leaves, under
the evergreen creeper
on the crumbling grey wall.
It seems to be saying:

Look at me, look at
my tears of rain,
my bruised edges.
Why have I been left
here by myself
like a child in the
naughty corner at school?
The things I could
say to you, the riches
I could spill into
your ear, your mouth,
the gentleness of
my velvet touch,
how I could enfold you,
how I could probe
to the very centre of you.

At least linger awhile,
consider me.