Some of the best are unexpected.
Fuller than one might have guessed,
Excited like puppies when released—
Far too innocent when dressed.
Others are conical dunces’ caps,
Pink-tipped, self-supporting spears
Flattened by the fabric of blouses,
Yearning to be perfect spheres.
Watermelons are an embarrassment,
At least for now (that will change!)
As are the slight curves of the gamine
Nature will later rearrange.
All flesh is false—and transitory,
Ripeness heralds its decay,
And yet your mottled, ebb-tide breasts
Buoy me in their brown-ringed sway.