The naked Truth never inspires Interest
No, rather a Hint of a Suggestion
Trips the waiter’s Tray, unsettles the Nest
By exerting some Force upon the Chin
Pleasant . . . if a Whisper cold float, have Color
Muted I think . . . Pink, Bronze, pale Blue or Peach
Some deep Chord resonates by some Flavor
Who plays this sweet Music? What Hand does reach?
Fragrant . . . the Tilt of a Neck, a slight Leg
The Shadow within a Cleavage bare
Just a tiny Bite of some foreign Egg
Never a Touch, the Lure twists a Light, rare.
Song without Note, the Form, bent & reedy
But a Hint, now there’s a sweet Melody.