Whitman would delight in you.
Oh, I'd kill to implant
you in the past and
into his journal,
to see your sweet blood leak in ink
from his pen tip
and have at hand forever
your surfaces in words.

"the face, the limbs, the index from head to foot, and what it arouses,"

Others clamor in predictable patterns
after you, groups of girls
stripped of nerve
by the idea that you exist
and can be interacted with.

"for you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning"

Your skin bewilders me,
perfect shell over perfect swells
of muscle and sharp bone,
and the shade of sun and clay,
of the earth that curves under you
to hold you at a soft peak.

"the flush of the known universe is in him."

Tastes in time acquired
stay sweeter on my tongue
for longer
than such token beauty,
but impulse will not reject raw
for refined.
More get in line.