My red skirt gives
Not a fig about gravity,
Is easily engaged
By any fugacious
Corner wind, most treacherous in exposing
White winter legs to the burning
Hands of the sky’s Don Giovanni.
Still
I cannot resist
The firm hold of my waist,
The flirty passage
Of linen on the inside
Of my thighs; that slight
Rub not too innocently
Soft. I forgive
Perpetually anew.

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