Then re-read it & feel tremendous tenderness for the poor old love. And, in the third verse, yourself
Right dress
Slither of silk like temperate water over
The humps of hips, delicious as a drink;
Lace froths on flesh as lightly as shadow
And nylon shines, a sly translucent pink.
Next the sheer stockings smoothing over knees,
Stretched taut at calves & plumping full of thighs.
The curtains at the bedroom windows press
Back, like constables, the straining eyes.
The sweet & private ritual of dressing,
This beautifying of the self, creates
A painless sense of being loved & loving,
A perfect equilibrium of states.
The frock floats like a fall of mist & roses
Over soft secrets, desiring & desired;
Before the wardrobe mirror gravely poses
Archibald Fullblood, Brigadier, retired
Why do we deny men these sensual pleasures in dress? Babies, boys & girls, react with pleasure to velvets, feathers & fur
