in quest of movement

breasts and arms
both playmates near my neck
the wall clock ticking
effortless licking
my eerie little head
never far from bed
exploring in the light and shadow
in quest of movement
but how far can i go
before i reach the lowest toe
of that very nice girl
who has rhythm inside of her curls?
will she be nimble and quick
or full of nothing but bulk?
the arrangement of flowers is yours
and the misty, out-of-focus contours
are mine
the light-footed dancer
bottom-heavy on my chest
in a fit of irony
settles down to rest
while i, like a sculpture of a reclining nude,
bide my time for the praise which is sure to come
as i wiggle my thumb
without strength; in fact it's almost weak
in my newly contemplative technique,
which is anything but unique.