---

Carol McCormick

Sex and your Average Muse

Wicked, the intensity
he engages making love,
every move a shameless worship,
glassed over like some maniacal scientist
looking deep into the scope
terrified of missing
the slightest shift of cells.

Naturally there I am,
sliding the power
under the incredible manipulation,
making love instead, to
the competition, the favored lover;
inked over, simply magnificent,
scratching a poem
along his spine,

smile, he'll always have trains
that venture beyond timberline,
laying their own brand
of ravishing, in tracks,
between snows.