Laid Out Not for You to See
The cameras cannot call up fingertip
Of touch no matter what the Canon lens,
Of kiss, a red caress. Ohhh, linger lip
On satin touch with wet. Vas deferens
Is far beyond the scope of camera click
Unless removed from love, and who would want
It then without its whispered shout, that slick
Amen? The camera cannot smell Vermont
In autumn, taste — unique — the nectar from
The hearts of maples in an early spring.
The cameras never smell the pit, or cum,
Or sniff the sweat on balls in fragrant swing.
The poem trumps the camera. Lines can taste
A woman after she has been laid waste.