·
·
·····if
·····now i
want to write a poem
about love–
·····making
my window says
the snow
is
simply
·····white
·····on evergreens
and
my door says
there must be some mistake—
and i
cannot compare
the gray
·····sky
·····to you and not the black trees
to anything
like
the softly,
··········red up–
···············welling
of your nipples so following my fingers
·····this morning—
or
the purple
·····odor
·····of you
·····you dye me with and –you – i want already
········you
········again– and
the stain
of tasting you between my lips
·····so
much color
·····that a woman
·····is
and i
·····want
··········to be
··········in–
·····expressibly
·····in
·
·
February 23 2014 • by William Crimson
The Erotic Writer 
love the way your words pulled me through the window, pausing at the door, and looking into that room (again) and seeing the lovers entwined.
lovely prose. Your playing with words always offers me erotic insight, laid down exquisitely, gently, like a trail of falling snowflakes, ethereal, yet substantive. . I must go back and let my eyes slip down along the fall of them again. And again.
nilla
I am *so* buttered. Funny, I like that you call it prose. That’s the way i think of it — my Erotic Prosetry. :) I’ve been reading some E.E. Cummings, and wanted to try a little flavor of that.
I thought of e.e.Cummings immediately…but it’s also, very much, Your style.
Will,
this poem has so many levels I’ll have dive in time and time again.
Paul.
Truly beautiful.