To the Amrs of the Guy Who Sits Opposite Me in Statistics
Oh, fuckin hell, what perfect arms, Bunched like a fist in a stocking,
all wiry, tendon, vein, all hard
in a wrap of near-transparent skin
brown down along the forearmís sinewy edge.
Good long clean fingers,
sturdy strong thick wrists,
bicep like the bulk of a calf
sliding up and down like some well-oiled thing,
with every little grasp or reach
moving like a knee under a thin sheet.
with more sex than a thigh,
like legs crossed, self pressed against self,
hiding the tender hollow of the crook
Yeah, Iíd press the tip of my tongue into that hollow,
Iíd push my fingers into that dark line
to feel supple veins and lay my palm
on the living hardness of that muscle.
My eyes move over that flesh like hands.