by A.C. Clarke

Lingerie counters are his ivory portal.
The slur of silk between finger and thumb
(against nipples, under crotch)
the supernumerary lace
tracing a bracup, frilling a knickerleg.
No mere arousal
this is the real thing:
racks of slips, basques, camisoles
peachy as skin which doesn’t need shaving.

Back home he enters softness
the give of pliant textures.
His skirts rustle.
Forget the knife and needle. For these minutes
he’s into Woman, as dreamed.
He smoothes the creases in her slippery skin
tenderly: finds it fit.