Breasts are
like milk,
quick to spoil
veined with blue mold.
Soft melting basilicas
to be lost with mayfly longing,
an invitation to drink.

Strangers pinch and spur them,
look the aureoles in the eye
and think they speak,
miraculously
like caged budgerigars.

Like diatoms they tremble
and taste the air
with their blonde cilia hairs.
Their delight is dubious.
It disbelieves itself.

Once I wanted
to sand and polish them
into dance floors of ice
with nothing to lose.
Instead I decided to like them,
while I still can,
without lying.