The Grove

Through passion’s grove we nimbly dance,
A masquerade of trees,
while formal priggish piano beasts,
keep time on tarnished keys.
Spin with me, my green-eyed wolf,
your tail of chasteness twirling,
as autumn leaves spin madly now,
‘round thighs of tawny curling.

You elfin maid of yesteryear
earthbound with moss root-sprung,
the nectar of your musky throat
tastes hot upon my tongue,
and stirs in me a thrumming growl
a caution to the hare,
the moon will rise and in its glow
I’ll nip your body bare.

My loin of embers glows blue hot,
tribute to the scent we’ve made,
rolling, snarling, yipping thrusts,
a blood game hotly, deadly-played.
I pin your tender limbs below,
our breath chuff-thumps in ragged praise,
‘till spent and sated, nuzzled tight,
We nestle spoon-like, dazed.

William Bolen is a Refinery Operator currently living in Lake Charles, Louisiana with his wife, five children, and assorted pets. He is attending McNeese College in Lake Charles, majoring in English and minoring in hall scurrying. His pastimes include raising kids, writing, attending college, working out, and physical exhaustion.

Find more by William Bolen in the Author Index.

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