The sky swirls
With the pink tint
Of sunset clouds
And I make out
Her shape,
Her cheeks here,
Her lips there,
Other pieces
Of her anatomy
Scattered across
The horizon,
The ceiling of
The Sistine Chapel
Only it is not God’s hand
I see, but hers,
My cheeks flushed
As deeply as the clouds,
Over what my brain
Conjures up,
Zappa being right about
The dirtiest part of the body,
Though maybe even he
Could not quite
Come to grips
With this,
How potent a concoction
My brain can brew
When I put my mind to it,
Stretching my fingers
To touch the infinite,
To what I know
I can never again touch
For real,
The pink of it
Glorious inside of me
And always will be
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