Giovanna Mulas

Heathen Chant

Of nectar (the moss)
that bacchanal perfume's
lips are made, beauty
and the raised choruses of mine,
lewd,
sensual, blithe.
Like algae, odorous,
glaucous you emerge, dive again
(labyrinths are those brave ones)
and now—aye—you part the hair
the skin demands.
Now—aye—now
mine you respond,
now—aye—now
docile you are.

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