A Mouth Full Of Sundays

I roll you in a mouth of Sundays.
Your skirt comes off in a mouth of Sundays.
Your hips are a mouth of Sundays.
Inside your body careen a mouth of Sundays.
I say in your ears a mouth of Sundays.
I’m giving your ass a mouth of Sundays.
Your nipples stand in my mouth of Sundays.
The light on your skin is a mirror held to a mouth of Sundays.
Nothing could break this dance, in the arced room, that is a mouth of Sundays.
Ecstatic laughing is shaped like a mouth of Sundays.
Soft.  Soft is my life, in your mouth of Sundays.

*refrain stolen from Mark Bibbins’ poem of the same name

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