He plays her like me might his instrument
Drawing out of her music even she doesn’t know she has
inside,
Each touch filled with harmony and pain,
And the intensity of lust,
Alone, in a crowd at first, to watch him on stage, and later,
A private performance in which she is the instrument
Into which he injects himself, bow and all,
She taking it all in, stirred fried,
Magnified, turtle soup, boiled up and served
Still in its (her) shell, yet also, partly out of it,
Her pain also her pleasure,
Her needs met and compounded,
Like interest in a bank book, she comes (sic) to collect,
He knows how to play her, and she lets him,
His fingers on her keys, and deep into the key
She keeps deep inside, all notes played hot,
But never sour, each reverberating elsewhere in her
Like harmony or an echo, or part of some instrument
She alone knows of, yet which needs him to set loose,
A moist duet she aches for and collects,
Hearing it all with every part of her body, not just her ears,
His mouth blowing into her, his flute, stirring up
A haunting sense of something beyond hearing, felt instead,
Powerful and complete.
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