Teasing...... Poem by RIC BASTASA

the snail loves the
veins of the hands

they are the maps
to its licking pleasures

it feels blood
palpitating to its mouth

sacrifice beauteous
not consumed just felt

the hard house
is always the wall

that keeps it from the
hazards of the winds

from the minding of the
the leaves

from the mocking of the
moon

from the paleness of death
there is always the lingering

pleasure of non-consummation
fluid kept at the middle part

of the pelvis at the center
of the ecstasy of gravity