Paradise in the shade of a breast

John Donne’s poetry excites,
neuroscientists have recently discovered
love is
amphetamines,
the effect of his verse,
the bait,
making one little room, everywhere.

Her clothes falling
like leaves from a tree
love is
respiring, dead
in the shade, sticky and hot,
the smell of sweet perfume
becomes a pungent scent.

She lays naked like a door,
permitting gentle entry.

Sibilantly seducing
light flickers long after the candle dies,
passion like a fever is not sleeping
beneath the dishevelled sheets.

Synapses firing, sprouting protuberances
of bluebells,
nipples, phalluses, proboscises,
then dew upon the flowers.

Cigarettes glow in the darkness,
drowning in joy, pushing,
recoiling, the arched body
goading like Dickinson’s Goblin Bee,
that will not state it’s sting.

A land alive with the light of a constant sun
discovered love is
when the afternoon loses its nap.