You Touch Like No Other

You touch me, lightly with deft fingers some would say, learned behaviour Doktor Freud, you tire not, and cover miles and miles of often hairy hide, seemingly at will and with the aid of time, and thoughts that reach beyond convention's drab, your digits are, though I would not condone the sharing of this sweet phenomenon, possessed, not of a talent or of the want, the need and of an innate lust. No, these were made, created by the gods due to an urgent need a sense of balance disarrayed, and slipping back into the dark abyss from whence all evil comes. You knead, you stroke and use the layman's tools, you speak of petrissage, and stand in silence for the man whose old and withered hand seems to betray, the man above, creator, as he's known. To wit. You brush, the smile upon your face is mischievous, and makes the felon stand as if it would or could just take, betray the trust of peasants under God, the dufflebag stirs quickly and expands, when Kookaburras sing, when stories sell like Latvian cheese mist hangs above the BAR its pewter edges lean though missing is the sheen. I will one day be free of envy and of death, to share the snow, shoes ring the swan and flakes descend, to land on gentle feet, white feathers hide and swim above the silt in tepid salt so deep within. Your fingers squeeze, and poke, a gentle tease explores the folds and stays, drawn into caves where bats have been and, long ago, the tide would come and sweep the little ones into the lap of nights, of carnal bloom and sibling rights, she strikes, a sister's grace, a brother's impish pace, and growth occurs as God had laid the rules when on the promised day twelve fragile roots fuse into one defying bless-ed fools and hatch as they still pray.