Lawdy!

Paroxysmal slim voluptuary! –
brave neat slip we call the soul –
oh, how we had you wrong.
As wide as you are long, you
nonetheless defeat all measure –
sleek and fleet and evanescent –
ever-present treasure – longing
for release which you derive by
keeping us alive until you can't.

(We've only so much stuff to pack
into our pants: you don't do miracles.)
But while we're manifesting into
flesh, doubly-helical and fresh,
you will deign to keep us something
we might almost say is whole.
Rigmarole enigma!: dance around
on fairy feet as long as we're
configured to: fancy meeting you

here, dairy treat! – you're a whipped
cream dear. We've just had ripping
sex and come to such a climax! –
felt as if it lasted one sweet year.
Paroxysmal slim voluptuary! –
we thought you were funereal
wingèd-angel marble statuary! –
not this bawdy song. Lawdy,
how we had you wrong.