I, wrapped around your spoon,
Honeyed and warm, sheet hot
Milk running down your form
Don’t take the I from a poem
Of liquid gold, the amberling glow
Of touches, fingertip to toe.
It isn’t me in the spotlight,
Just in the heat – from Mercury
Rising, from silvery shadows
Dancing the age it takes to trace
The top brass bronze of you.
poem http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frottage_(surrealist_technique)
