What might she send — a wet sleeve, <br />or platter of brine-latticed bluefish <br />dusky with capers, lemons, wine; <br />a briar for your thumb, a mouth, <br /> <br />lunatic, to suck the blood: <br />a signal that one too often <br /> <br />inside & now beside herself with thoughts <br />of you wonders how she might woo <br /> <br />and through dew-whetted keyhole <br />pursue & sing & win? She is marvelous <br /> <br />with waiting. Come. Hunt here. <br />Relieve with hands and tongue her heavy hour.<br /><br />Lisa Russ Spaar<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/after-john-donne-s-quot-to-his-mistress-going-to-bed-quot/
