In slippers on this stool the world unbuttons her blouse for
me,
One delicious button at a time; (of which there are many)
the pearl at her throat she unclasps with nimble fingers,
incandescent the Italian shell
a grape to burst below, perhaps from Moterosso, Vernazza,
the vineyards of Manarola
la terre, del mare, with a honeyed tongue I wander
From the kitchen counter I plot my week in Paris
Where one button below, at her heart is a button that
gleams, is bronze, is brazen
It dizzying and glamorous and all too suddenly falls away to
expose
The bamboo slide at manipura, the world opens up Indonesia,
a silence so thorough it buzzes
And the blouse, silky white, lets a breeze through that is
laden with the nutty smell of rice
the bottom bead lies at the root the wooden bead of the amazon, where I
will begin
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