Her fan is like his deep voice
when he whispers Yeah
when her hand is in his cumberbund
and he's smoking a stogie with gloves on
An orchid or a knife
Her lips are wet fur
and sometimes they are two folks peeling an apple
and a hummingbird's blood
on a french door
She is sleepwalking through our barn
Her mantilla strings along
a nasty brat
said the spider to the fly
You could see the arteries in her breasts
They were dressed rabbits