Curves sit well on you

on your knobby fingers with sweet meat and pink fat,

a writer you must be weilding a feather for a pen

 

curves of flesh on arms intersect with shoulders

did you sit meditating squarely or kneading dough plenty gained

dimples inside elbows and in collars like small caves

 

curve of your nose pouts, curve of chin juts out

pinna of your ears neat strain neck

into cheeky tilt to look at something captive

 

That black eveing gown sits

darker on curve of breasts. its curvy cuts dipping into its cleaved groove

your paleness offset by stark darkness of a high round butt

 

you turn to watch something leftwards

your arms define the conflict

the right stands on tip-toes on table-top, yearning to steady the fate

 

while the left folds the gown slightly and drops down

in slight pause of the familiar being let behind

eyes fullstops of pitch black under comma of equal shade