by a swan, beaten not by pure
white wings, but in a roughness
his palms caving in
your breasts
groping madness, pushing down
to your hips; his are not
cloaked in feathers, but dry
scratching flakes of skin
his rhythms smooth, yours
broken and quivering
his breath deep, yours shallow
he is deep, you are shallow
your neck untouched but everything else
touched
(perhaps if he were a god
you would have felt power in his poundings
but my horrified soul
doubts it)
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