Making Art

of her sweet
lavender scent.
She took the horn from my side
and impishly blew a farewell tune
to Toulouse;
dark clouds instantaneously
rolled in like the French army.
“We should leave now!” I said
draping her yellow cloak
over our heads as if to
parachute away to the gods.
Our thighs pulsed once more;
my shepherd instincts dominated
as I tended my luscious lamb towards safety;
airily secure under her alabaster slip,
my hand steered below her left breast.
And so we loped
not from The Storm
but from this cruel city–
together.
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