Not Just a G String

G String

There are rounded monoliths that rise
To proclaim their own turf, as eyes pop out like springs
To wonder, what heaven am I in.
And strangely there is no string theory here.
Just Lady Godiva explaining the physics
Of the buoyancy of her buttocks.

And I wonder, how tight the flanking
Knots are, seemingly carless and carefree.
And strangely, the more you look, the more clarity
You see. The panorama of a little triangle
A trigonometry lesson, of little angles
Delicately margined, enclosing more
Than the eyes can scavenge.

And between I and her, there is only
A tangent, a line that touches a curve.
My path of sight drawing a line
To the surplus of Gluteus. And like an island in an ocean
She lies, in that strange fusion of romance
And eroticism. Of immodesty and intrigue.
As the eyes glean through the pupils
Abstracting a notion of parsimony
Of a little smidgen of fabric,
Barely there. A bantam wonder, that supersizes
The iris aperture, to the beautiful contrast
Of economy and surplus.

And there are no peeping toms here
Just grown men tuning their third eye
To an extrapolation of the sheer honesty
Of an anatomical wonderland
To figurative lust.

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