Oswell Blakeston
Prose Poem Two
Your blond curls bounce now that your flesh is all anointed
with the perfume of a boy aware. Your muscles move like ferrets
in a sack, and sometimes your smile is just a fountain flow-
ing flowers. Your clothes, when you consent to wear them, are
but a cross between a boyish dream and a tight glove. So all
the tiny hairs are stiff upon my hand. I think you’re worth all
twelve fine goats in any Greek God’s Herd. Your brown thighs
rolled like good cigars, your nostrils scarlet to the pit, the
scream that geysers in your…ah!
Page(s) 24
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