Cleaning Apple Juice From Your Prayer Rug

Your juice was warmed by the heat of my hand
on the slim, bountiful, concavity of its source.
Need for moisture shook you, a thirst like desert sands’
for reviving river’s wet returning course,

-made slip your grip, and doused your upper thighs
in the luscious, fragrant juice, even your glorious
little rug was soaked, for the bowl’d been full brim-wise
“Sit”, said I “absorbtion’s labor I don’t find laborious”

Took I sponge, to wield as ‘twere my tongue
and sop all trace from the woolly strands it hid among
parted, probed each fiber, pressed padding as I strove
To serve you for joint sake of lust and love


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