Oblivion

That kind of beauty
can haunt a life
and ruin a man,
the incandescent taste of skin
so fair it flouts
a summer day
and taunts the bed clothes
as if to say
this is but a borrowed pleasure;
the supple lilt of hips
making wastrels of my senses
and savoring the scent
of flesh entrapping secrets
like a summer solstice;

and that last wave of wonder
puckered in a silken crescent
breaking over me
into oblivion.