Listening to Vivaldi (2nd Draft)

1.

I fold myself into you, like a fan - paper covered with butterflies
fluttering against the sweat-coated necks of black-haired ladies,
 ruffles caught between fingers that crawl like bugs up my thighs.

2.

They say the neck of a woman is like the handle of a violin,
long and un-pluckable. It is her waist that sings
beneath your fingers, her breasts that fit into the spaces
between your thighs.

3.

At night, your string black chords into rotting wood;

the bow sings across shadows, fluttering like butterflies

folding and unfolding their blue wings, like a fan

serenading the sweaty necks of black-haired ladies.

4.

Palms caress palms; notes linger over purple chairs.

The un-pluckable ladies hover, stoccato, around the table.

You ponder the music in that piece of skin:

Would it be soft and melodic, or more dissonant, like the work of Shoenberg?

5.

You flex your fingers.

6. 

A lady fingers her diamond earring, and sighs.

She plucks with her fork, at a rotting piece of salmon.

Her red dress coils around the creases of my fan -

your lips coil around my sweat-coated neck.

7.   I ponder the music in that piece of skin.

8. You flex your fingers.

9. I fold myself into you, like a fan - paper covered with butterflies

fluttering against the sweat-coated necks of black-haired ladies,
 ruffles caught between fingers that crawl like bugs up my thighs.