It doesn’t matter.
Her skin tastes like honey, or cinnamon, or dark chocolate:
It makes no difference.
Her touch is a leather glove, a gentle breeze, a cry for help:
It changes nothing.
She could be sweetened by silver, dancing in rubies, or fresh from the bath:
I might notice, I might not.
There is nothing of interest in her geometry,
Even less in technique.
All I seek is the thing behind the irises,
Be they aquamarine, dark earth or willow leaf,
The thing like a mischievous smile:
The enchanted mirror where we release.