I can see with my hands

said the sculptor to the clay

Except the clay is soft

and on her back she lay

my hands can mould just anything

my gasping heart demand

and you my soft material

will mould at my command

I will place tips just here and here

and fold soft lips now there

I will create chasm and cavern

explore all with sweet despair

A fall of hair I will create

at curl in other places

a subtle mound will rise not fall

the jungle that it traces

and mountain valley foliage on

this joy of my creation

and then mould with seeing fingertips

the cause of my elation

soft and warm, smooth and wet

hot and patience asking

I will move this clay this model mine

This Pygmalion devastating

Yet sprung to life and movement

My love with ravage writhe

Beneath my subtle tender skills

She will correctly strive

whether end to this will come

stand plumb torn as wonder

my hand with flick at yon soft tip

other passion ripped asunder

My tongue will curve and smooth sweet clay

her sweat to claim her debt

I will create my masterpiece

my form, erotic, wet

.