My eye
struck the stone
of your joy
the overlapping petals
of your crying rose –
its perfume, its
innocent accumulation.
My long white perception
dripping like an exact
measure of this curve
a martyr clinging
to the last faith of the flesh
a mellow sun
suspended like
perspiration
on the twin clouds
of your legs.
Beyond Language 
People don’t write enough poetry about sex. This is a great little poem.